


Starshine

by orphan_account



Series: Partnership [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Action, Angst, Drama, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:26:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>‘Did you know, when a star falls, two people go out to search for it? They take the sad, lonely star and bury it. The Earth embraces it and the cycle of life continues.’</i><br/><i></i> </p><p>If only being a Gleaner was that glamorous. Aside from lack of sleep, fears of star mutation and all the other lovely stuff that comes with this title; when one has Sherlock Holmes as your Gravedigger, everything gets a little more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gleaner and The Gravedigger

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted from Jam-Scarves-and-Crack on Tumblr 
> 
> Please leave comments and let me know what you think!

 ——

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

—-

 

John fiddled with the silver metal band around his neck, his fingers running over the raised bumps and ridges of the buttons before dropping it with a sigh. He was exhausted, between the shifts at the surgery and star hunting, there was very little time to sleep. John closed his eyes and rolled to his side, his face half enveloped by his pillow as he contemplated. One in one hundred thousand, that was the average statistic for Gleaner birth and as luck would have it, John Watson was in the minority.

 

His body ached and his mind craved rest. Too many stars too soon, it was starting to worry him. Why had there been so many unfulfilled souls? So many murders? Why were they all in his district of care? It was unsettling and while his Gravedigger was over the moon, John was anything but.

To calm a fallen star was tiring and physically draining. Sherlock didn’t seem to understand this, he seemed to find unravelling the soul’s past far more interesting than actually doing his goddamn job. And while the Digger’s deductions were amazing and awe inspiring; when John had a little under three hours sleep, the line of reasoning suddenly became less ‘brilliant’ and bordering more into ‘frustratingly annoying’. He sorely wished that Sherlock used his talents for something other than showing off.

 

Well, at least his Gravedigger wasn’t one of the exploitive bastards he had heard horror stories about. Eccentric, yes, but nothing compared to them. John shuddered at the recollection of it. Gravediggers that made their Gleaners deform the soul in their care? It was disgusting. Gleaners came in many different shapes and forms; gender did not matter and neither did ethnicity. Ideals, morals? They varied with the person. However if there was one thing they all agreed on, if there was one single unwritten rule that was encoded into their very being, it was simply this:

_Never deform fallen souls in our care._

 

To crush a star was to crush one’s own soul; it was excruciating, from what he had been told. Of course he had experimented when he was younger; squeezing the crystal mass a little too forcefully to see what would happen. Oh God, the horrendous sensation of despair, pain and fear that echoed and resonated into the depths of his heart. That was something he  _never_  wanted to experience ever again. All that from a squeeze? He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to  _crush_  a star.

 

No wonder Phosphene powder was something so desperately fought over. No Gleaner in the right frame of mind would ever make it.

 

The sound of hissing and bubbling could be heard from downstairs. Oh, was Sherlock experimenting with acids again? Well, he didn’t object to that, acids were preferable to explosives by a long shot, though he didn’t wish to repeat his last meeting with Lestrade. Having to explain that the small localised explosion was in fact  _not_  a mutated star had not gone down well.

 

However, John saw the point in explosives. With most of London being covered in concrete, digging through it was always a bit of an issue. If acid would draw less attention, then great. Although John wished that the Digger didn’t experiment in their flat, the fumes were nauseating.

 

Fuck it, he was too tired to care. Just twenty minutes of undisturbed sleep, that was all he wished for.

 

~*~

John was awakened by a horrendous pounding headache that assaulted his senses and made his stomach lurch. Again? This was the third one this week! Why were there so many people dying in his district?

 

He resented the fact that he couldn’t ignore the soul’s cry; like a magnet, he was drawn to the fallen star. He was filled with the uncontrollable urge to care for it, to calm and soothe it until it could be wrapped in the Earth’s warm embrace. To ignore the wordless cry of help was to tear out his own heart, he simply couldn’t do it. And oh, how he had tried.

 

Goddamn it, he hated being a slave to this biological coding. With a trembling frame, he pushed himself off the bed. Ignoring the fact that it was currently three in the morning, he grabbed his coat from his chair and moved to the door.

 

“Sherlock!” he called out as he undid the metal collar around his neck. Of all the Diggers in the world, why did he pick one of the flightiest? Was Sherlock even at home? He turned the collar around, stopping when his forefinger brushed against the buttons on the side. Hurriedly tapping in the sequence to start up the OS, he felt his teeth clench at the lack of response.

 

“Come on, come on, start already!” John muttered as he stared into the circular space of the band.

 

“If you asked Mycroft, you could easily get an upgrade.”

 

John looked up to see his flatmate, his Gravedigger, Sherlock Holmes in all his condescending glory, complete with absurd coat and smug grin. “And what, have him hang a debt over my head? No thanks. I’ll just bring it up at the next performance meeting.”

 

“Because they’re  _sure_  to listen to you,” Sherlock replied, absentmindedly twirling the end of his shovel as he waited for John to get ready. His impatience was practically radiating off him in bounds.

 

Unfortunately, John was able to feel this too. “Stop that,” he snapped. Sherlock didn’t respond, he merely lifted an eyebrow. “You know I can feel that. Stop it. It’s bad enough that this soul won’t shut up, I don’t need your impatience being mixed in.” His collar let out a harsh beep, letting the pair know that it was ready and operational. About time.

 

In the hollow of his choker a holographic display appeared. A grid of black and pale blue intersected the space and the buildings surrounding them were shaded in olive. The red dot that showed their current position was blinking steadily, but the star didn’t seem to be anywhere in range. Great. John’s district spanned to Euston Square and Oxford Circus, where was he even meant to start?

 

The cries of the star were quieter now, nothing new there. After the initial calling to let a Gleaner know of its existence, they seemed to calm for a little while. Good, it allowed John to think a bit more clearly.

 

“Perhaps we’ll see a mutation,” Sherlock mused as he began to walk ahead, his shovel slung over his shoulder; John was careful to avoid the metal from hitting him in the face.

 

“How about no?” John snapped. Ducking under the shovel, he walked ahead. It made sense, since he had the tracker, now if only Sherlock’s ridiculously long legs followed that thread of logic. “I don’t like the idea of a vengeful spirit wreaking havoc in my district.”

 

“At least the Yard’s Mutation team would finally get off their lazy behinds. Have you seen Anderson? He’s gained five pounds from lack of movement.”

 

“Not the point. It’s our job to stop the mutations, remember that.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As if I became a Gravedigger for something so mundane.”

 

How could he forget? Sherlock had made it very clear on the day they met that he was not an altruistic man. He was fascinated by fallen souls and as he wasn’t a Gleaner, becoming a Gravedigger seemed like a logical next step. How else would he get close to them?

 

Perhaps this was why Sherlock always insisted on distracting him on the job? He needed more data?

“I can always get another Digger but I can’t imagine another Gleaner wanting to put up with you.”

John knew it was mean spirited, but he was tired and Sherlock was not helping matters in the slightest.

 

Sherlock didn’t respond, instead, his face was carefully blank. Turning his head, he motioned for John to walk ahead; no more preamble, it was all strictly business now.

 

~*~

 

The pair had ended up in an alleyway thirty minutes away from Baker St station. A lone gas lamp was mounted on the wall near the end. Empty aside from them, John’s nose crinkled; the area smelt of refuse and urine, how pleasant. To anyone else, the lamp appeared to be the only light source in the dank lane but John knew better, he knew that somewhere, there was a fallen star emitting a pale light of its own. He instinctively knew that even without a tracker, he just needed to— And ah, there it was, hidden behind a large rusty bin, invisible to the unobservant eye.

 

Fumbling with the side of his collar, John switched off the tracker and clipped the band back around his neck. The call of the soul was deafening now that he was near, the star cried out to him,

desperate for a calming force. He rushed ahead and kneeled down to pick up the lump of crystal. He was blind to any of the potential dangers that lurked in the shadows, right now, the star was all that mattered.

 

Stars were always fascinating; like people, no two were the same. In appearance, they always took the form of untreated crystal; rugged and just a little bigger than his fist. The aura they radiated differed from star to star, but this time, it was a cold blue.

 

John settled down onto the gritty concrete and held the rock in both hands. His soul reached out to it, sending waves of comfort to the distressed star and in return, it shared memories of its past life. Disjointed pieces, arbitrary blips that made no sense to John whatsoever. They ranged vastly, from something as unimportant as scraping a knee to their first kiss. This was the bond of trust between a Gleaner and a soul.

 

“Hollow or hostile?” These were the first words Sherlock had said since their little dispute at the flat.

John felt a rush of relief, guilt had been niggling at him. “They were hostile, but I’ve calmed them down now.”

 

~*~

 

Sherlock lifted his shovel, tapping at the ground with the end to test the strength of the concrete. When a loud ‘tink’ told him that mere force alone wouldn’t be enough to break through, he frowned. The shovel was placed against the wall and his hand moved to grab a vial from his coat. Well, he  _did_  want to test that new acid he was working on…

 

“Of all places, an alleyway, John? What possible significance could this place hold?”

John’s brow furrowed for a moment. “It’s night time, there’s laughter,” he responded, his voice now distant.

 

Sherlock smiled. There weren’t many advantages to being a Gravedigger. The pay was poor, the hours were sporadic and he was at the beck and call of his Gleaner. Though Sherlock cared for none of those things, they were the main reasons people avoided becoming a Gravedigger.

 

“Data, John. I need more data,” Sherlock knelt down to pour the corrosive acid onto the floor. He was met with a small tower of wispy smoke as the acid did its work.

 

“Summer…” John’s face twisted into a look of confusion. “The door behind me is opening. The sensation of soft cotton, there’s a sudden gust of wind.”

 

Digging was a laborious and tedious job, so deducing the fallen souls passed the time fairly well. From the snippets of memories and speech John was able to gather from the star, Sherlock found that he was able to deconstruct their life story. The more vague the memories, the bigger the challenge. 

 

“Female.” Sherlock reasoned. Remembering the feel of material was one thing, but when tied in with emotional responses and the weather, it made perfect sense. She was wearing a loose dress that ended at the knees, allowing her to feel the sensation of the breeze. The cotton came from the dress blowing into her thighs. She was on a date and snuck through the kitchen to avoid their bill, that much was obvious. They were behind a very famous and very expensive restaurant; one that many young hopefuls aspired to eat at, but never dared to try their hand at. No doubt they underestimated the bill and managed to escape from the watchful eye of the staff. The laughter was from the joy of their success.

 

“Brick pressed into the back, the feeling of affection—” John blinked, as if returning to his senses and shot him a sharp glare. “Sherlock? Why aren’t you digging?” Exasperation tinged at the edge of his words.

 

Digging…? Oh yes, that. Sherlock tore his gaze away from the lump of crystal in John’s hands and focused back to the concrete which had now softened enough to be penetrated. He grabbed his shovel and lifted it high, plunging it down into the ground. There was no resistance this time and the end of the shovel sank in as if it were sand.

 

“So she lost her virginity here. Pleasant.”

 

John blushed. “Seems like it.” His embarrassment soon faded and panic flashed in his eyes, various emotions played out on his face and Sherlock simply found himself watching. The soul was panicking.  

Normal people bored him, they were too easily read, too predictable. But John, John was different. He was ordinary but at the same time, not. He had a strong sense of self, of morals and when he was alone, John Watson was an upstanding citizen. Boring. However, put him in contact with a star and he became part of another person. In a blink of an eye, he wasn’t so dull or normal anymore.

He was an anomaly. One in one hundred thousand, that was the statistic last time Sherlock checked. In his lifetime, Sherlock had only met two other Gleaners but he hadn’t seen either of them work. They never allowed him to follow and their Diggers did everything in their power to stop him. One even drugged him.

 

To bury a star was an intimate ritual, limited to only the Gravedigger and Gleaner. When there was a burial, a Gleaner was at their most vulnerable and they depended on the Digger to protect them as they calmed the star. Before he picked up his shovel, Sherlock had never understood why this was; sentiment, he had labelled it as. And now, as he watched the glow of the fallen soul, he understood why. For anyone else to witness this was almost sickening.

 

How odd, that he would feel violated on the soul’s behalf. He was just the Gravedigger; he wasn’t the Gleaner, he wasn’t the one calming and comforting a wayward soul. He had no personal connection to the lump of crystal other than digging a hole for it.

 

And thank God for that, Sherlock Holmes was not a man of patience and he didn’t care for stupidity. To be in constant contact with panicked, irrational souls would drive him mad, he didn’t know how John could deal with it all. It was a small mercy that he wasn’t a Gleaner. Sure, he may not have the ability to touch a star but at least he’d be close enough to see one.

 

“Sherlock, hurry up.”

 

He knew it was selfish of him, but more than anything, Sherlock wanted to see a star mutate. He wanted to see the small crystal evolve into something horrifying and dark, he wanted to watch the monster prowl through the streets and study their behaviour. John would never allow it, of course. And as much as Sherlock had tried to distract him from their job, he had never been successful.

 

“Why are you so against the idea of Mutations? I think it would be a fascinating study,” Sherlock remarked as he flung aside the first smattering of dirt.

 

There was a look of disgust on the Gleaner’s face, though he said nothing. He never did when the topic was mentioned. If it had been as simple as a rampant monster, John wouldn’t have reacted the way he did. John was hiding something from him and as much as he pried and deduced, he simply couldn’t figure it out. He was able to pick apart every fibre of John’s life. Every fibre aside from this one singular thing.

 

How frustrating.

 

He noted the signs of exhaustion on John’s face and sighed. John would do everything in his power to stop the star from mutating, even if it meant staying in the same spot for days. Although, that was true for all Gleaners, wasn’t it? At least from what he had heard. But why? Why would anyone push themselves so hard for the sake of another? For the sake of a  _dead_  person? It wasn’t as if the Gleaner gained anything from it, John had grumbled about the inconvenience more than enough times. It didn’t make sense.

 

Twenty minutes later, a small hole stood before his feet. Not too deep, a foot in depth and equally as wide. His designer trousers were covered in dirt, but he didn’t particularly care, he never did. With the end of his shovel, he directed John to the hole. The Gleaner slowly placed the star into the pit, handling it as if it had been made of the most fragile glass.

 

“And so we part, may you sleep well,” John murmured. With every burial, John had uttered these words in varying volumes. Always the same eight words without fail. It was odd and naturally, Sherlock had enquired about this. John’s response was equally as confusing. A tilt of the head and a furrowing of the brow as he asked Sherlock what he was on about. It appeared as if John wasn’t even aware of this quirk.

 

Sherlock shook his head free of the memory and finished the burial. In movements that lacked his usual grace, Sherlock shoved the pile of dirt beside him and over the star. Perhaps he patted the dirt a little too forcefully, because he could see a disapproving look on John’s face. It didn’t matter, it got the job done, didn’t it?

 

The sound of a sigh echoed though the alleyway and with a light gust of wind, both men turned their heads to face the grave. Where there had been previously empty space now stood a woman. Her form was transparent, as if she had been made of mist and her body emitted the same aura the star had. Though her features were hard to make out, it was clear to see that she was young, mid twenties at most.

 

Her hands were clasped in front of her and she smiled. Nodding her head in thanks, her form dissipated with the following gust of wind. The mist billowed carried away by the currents before vanishing completely leaving the two men staring after her.

 

“She was murdered.”

 

Sherlock blinked and lowered his chin to face his friend.

 

John wasn’t looking at him, instead he was staring at his hands, mentally recollecting the disjointed memories that he had been given. By the look of distress, they were fast fading. “When I was holding her, I saw her last moments of life. The person who murdered her, it was the same as the other star.” There was the faintest flicker of fear in John’s eyes when he lifted his head to peer at him. “Sherlock, we have to catch this murderer.”

 

Sherlock was at a loss of words. In the two months he had known John, he had never struck him as a vigilante. To be honest, neither was Sherlock, but the idea of catching a criminal… his lips stretched into a wide grin. “Oh, Christmas just came early.”

 


	2. Emotions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story it more up to date over at tumblr, but I'm updating this slowly so people can comment and catch up. So uh, please comment? It lets me know which aspects you're enjoying.

——

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

 

——

 

Sherlock carefully considered the information he had to work with. Aside from John’s track record of star hunting and the fragments of memories he gathered, he had little else to go on. Think, think! What could he use that would further their search? Well, the deductions he had about the stars’ lives and the afterimages of their soul would be enough to identify who the victims were —No, that wouldn’t work. He hadn’t paid particularly close attention to the victims’ afterimages, he tended to delete useless data like that when he had no use for it. The same could be said about his deductions. Deductions were there to pass time and nothing more; they held no importance. Damn.

 

Well, no matter, he’d ask John later. John had a deeper connection with the souls and though he claimed to forget them, Sherlock knew that it wasn’t so. Not everyone had his ability to systematically wipe out information from their brains.

 

“John?” Sherlock asked, when he snapped out of his thought filled haze. On his back, he soon realised that he was on the sofa of 221B’s living room. How odd. He was sure that he was still in that putrid alleyway. Perhaps this was the aftermath of one of his, as John had so colloquially put it, ‘blackout’ periods? His eyes flickered to the clock; 7 am.

 

Turning his head, his impatience flared up at the lack of response. “John?” Oh, how he hated repeating himself. With a frustrated huff, he propelled himself from the sofa and made his way to John’s room. The pitiful lock was cowed and surrendered to him in mere seconds, he threw open the door. He needed more data, surely John could understand that? Time was of the essence! Sherlock’s eyes scanned the room, looking for any sign of his Gleaner. It didn’t take long to find him.

 

John was sleeping.

 

Well, that wasn’t surprising. Three stars in a period of five days? Even the strongest of Gleaners would be exhausted. For a moment, Sherlock weighed out his options. Wake John up now and get the information he needed? Or allow the Gleaner to sleep and wait until he was more receptive and amiable? Choices... With his hand outstretched, he paused to peer at the silver band wrapped snugly around his left wrist. As with John’s choker that marked him as a Gleaner, Sherlock had a bangle that marked him as a Gravedigger. It made sense, police officers carried badges, bank executives had key cards and he had a bangle; a plain, simple clasped band with his Gleaner’s serial code engraved on the inside.

 

If he had been a sentimental person, Sherlock would have found the idea of belonging to his Gleaner endearing.

 

He pulled his hand back and frowned. He’d ask later, there was no doubt that John would be disagreeable if he awoke him now. Dropping his hand to his side, he pivoted on his heel and walked back out the door. He mustn’t be idle as John slept, he needed something to do—

 

Well, it  _had_  been a while since he last visited the Mind Palace.

 

~*~

 

Above him, the starry sky shone in all its brilliance; a thousand tiny lights scattered across the dark carpet of the stratosphere, rivalled by nothing but the moon. John smiled to himself as he laid flat on his back; he was content with just stargazing. He always loved visiting his grandmother in the summer, if not for the fields and the quaint rustic town, then for the night sky. He was never able to see such a clear sky back in London.

 

“I wanna go home, it’s so boring here,” an irritated voice said from his left.

 

John frowned and sent a sharp glare to his sister. She had been complaining for the past hour and as much as he loved the stars, he found that their radiance was not enough to block out her whiny voice. He pushed himself into a sitting position and was met with an equally frustrated glare.

 

Just as he opened his mouth to rebuke her with a scathing remark, he felt something call out to him.

 

It was deafening at first and it jarred him, making his head swim and his vision blur for what seemed like hours. In fact, it had only been a minute, at most.

 

Someone was hurt, he could feel it. There were no words, just crying.

 

He sprang to his feet, ignored the look of confusion on Harry’s face and whipped his head left and right, scanning the area for any signs of the injured person. Nothing, there was not a single soul around aside from he and his sister.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Someone’s scared and hurt,” John’s voice was distant as he sharpened his focus on the hidden target. This time, he felt a persistent pulling at his chest; similar to the sensation of having a leash tugged upon —No, rather, a more accurate description would be that it felt as if the leash had been wrapped around his heart. The pulling came from within, it was not an external sensation.

 

Not knowing how he knew, John followed his instincts and walked ahead, allowing his feet take him to the woods nearby.

 

“John, get back here! I’ll tell mum about what you’re doing!”

 

John broke out into a run, rushing head first into the woods. With only the moon and stars offering him light and his gut guiding him, John Hamish Watson; aged seven and three-quarters, had never felt so alive.

 

~*~

 

Seventeen hours later, John awoke from his slumber feeling sluggish and disorientated. And though he felt as if he his body was encased in cotton and his brain had been put into a blender, he was very grateful for the period of sleep. A part of him almost wished for another hour.

 

It was strange; before he was given his own district, he had always thought of it as a waste to sleep his day away. The recommended eight hours was his limit, any more and it was simply laziness.

And then the previous district Gleaner died and... Well, soon after his fourth star, John revised his opinion. 

 

His brain was slow to start but when it did, the first thing he noticed was that his bedroom door was wide open. Wait, he was sure that he— John released a groan and the palm of his hand met his face. Did Sherlock have no sense of privacy? The worst part was that this had happened before, the only difference was that last time he had been awake. There had been strong words, though he doubted that Sherlock listened. Sherlock had responded by saying that he needed a strand of John’s hair, he wanted to see the genetic makeup of a Gleaner’s hair, or something along those lines. John hadn’t been paying attention, he had been too busy throwing a pillow at the man’s face.

 

He counted his blessings, at least Sherlock hadn’t walked in on him when he was in a less than... decent situation.

 

No sense dwelling on the what ifs, he needed to work on this case and soon. Yes, he was unnerved by the fact that there was a murderer running rampant in the streets of London and yes, he wanted to catch this person before they did anymore harm. But truth be told, John figured that if the murderer was caught, his workload would be lessened.

 

That wasn’t to say that he resented star hunting, far from it. It always gave him a rush when he was able to lay a distressed spirit to sleep; he just didn’t want his life to revolve just around this one singular aspect. He was a person, not some robot programmed to stop stars from mutating. He wanted to have a life aside from all of this. However, with the influx of falling stars, John was starting to find that this was no longer the case. He was running on empty and his emotional shields were weakening with every session. If he wasn’t careful, the next star could possibly break him.

 

For a Gleaner, there was no fate worse than losing one’s sense of self; and yet, Gleaners were most at risk for mental instability. After all, they exposed their souls to comfort stars; with lowered shields, if nothing slipped in then it was a freaking miracle.

 

John never mentioned this to Sherlock though. What was the point in complaining about something he couldn’t change? It wasn’t as if Sherlock could take over his job and there wasn’t a Gleaner strong enough to take over his district. Hell, his district was so wide, he’d need two to replace him. He didn’t really have a choice other than to suck it up and do it.

 

His steps to the living room were slow and careful, his body was still unresponsive and as a doctor, John knew better than to push it. No, that was a lie. John would push his body as much as he could, if there was a star calling out to him then he would run with a broken leg if he had to. However, pushing his mental boundaries? Now that, was a little more dangerous. Bodies could heal and recover; the mind, not so much.

 

“You broke into my room.” A statement. The languid form on the sofa barely shifted.

 

“Yes?” Sherlock drawled, his fingers steepled over his chest.

 

John opened his mouth, an indigent outcry on the tip of his tongue but when it fell short, both men were greeted by silence. His lips came together as he mentally counted to ten. Alright, try again. “There are boundaries, Sherlock. I locked the door for a reason.”

 

“I don’t see why you had. The lock is flimsy at best.” Sherlock blinked, his brain now coming back online as he pushed himself upright. “Besides, I’m your Gravedigger, isn’t it my job to protect you? If something were to happen and I couldn’t get to you, that would be disadvantageous to both of us.”

 

The words were shallow; that last line was lip service, something to buy sympathy. John was having none of it. “No, you twat. You’re meant to dig holes,” he replied sharply.

 

“Boring.”

 

John’s brow furrowed and he moved forward, taking wide strides before he stood in front of Sherlock. Lashing out, he grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and held it up, his fingers curling just below the silver band.

“You see this, Sherlock? You see it?” John asked, shaking his hand as he did. “This shows that you are a Gravedigger. And this—” His free hand moved to briefly touch his collar. “Shows that I’m a Gleaner. We have a job to do together and yes, it’s boring and tiring but you know what?  _It has to be done._ ” John scowled and threw Sherlock’s wrist aside. “And if you’re so sick of it, just quit.”

 

“John...”

 

John’s eyes remained on the floor, quietly waiting for his anger to seep out from his feet. There was so much more he wanted to say, but it was nothing Sherlock needed to hear. Sherlock didn’t need to know that the bangle he wore around his wrist had been worn by eighty people before him. Sherlock didn’t need to know that John had never had a Digger for longer than three weeks, though John wouldn’t be surprised if he knew that already. Probably from his shoelaces or something equally as absurd.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

John blinked and his head snapped up. Wait, did Sherlock just—

 

“Oh, do stop your gawking, you look like Anderson,” Sherlock snapped. Catching himself, he frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you coherent enough to supply me with the information I need?”

 

“What?”

 

Sherlock scowled. “The murders, John. You have memories from the stars, don’t you? Tell me about them.”

 

Oh, right, that. John frowned and looked away, biting at the inside of his cheek as he tried his best to remember the disjointed pieces of information.

 

At the Homestead, they were taught to expel all thoughts relating to the star the moment they were done with the burial. An emotional and mental cleansing, of sorts. It was needed to preserve their sense of self, they had explained; the young impressionable Gleaners took to this explanation and clung to it as if it were the very air they breathed. No Gleaner wanted to lose sight of their soul, to do so was the same as a death sentence.

 

So while it was all well and good sharing the memories of a star when he was comforting it, to ask John to recall it afterwards was a bit more difficult. His subconscious may have recalled bits and pieces, but the forefront of his mind was having none of it.

 

“Well? Hurry up,” Sherlock prompted, ignorantly blind to John’s discomfit.

 

“I...can’t,” John replied slowly. “I just don’t remember any of it.” Not exactly a lie, but the last thing he wanted was to trigger an identity crisis. No thank you.

 

Sherlock’s lip twitched before curling into a snarl. “How could you throw away such useful data? You fill your tiny mind with useless rubbish like the Solar System but you couldn’t even remember the murderer’s face? The location of the murder? Even what they wore would be helpful!”

 

Feeling the waves of irritation practically palpating from Sherlock’s lithe form only served to increase his own frustration. “Well, excuse me for not wanting to turn into a bloody vegetable! “ John bit back. “Do you have any idea how distressing it is to have another person invade your brain? How terrifying it is? No, of course you don’t, you don’t  _do_  emotions.”

 

John inhaled sharply, his fists clenched beside him as he ground his molars together. No, no, he needed to calm down. He couldn’t afford to lose it over something as insignificant as this. Raise those shields, he chanted in his mind, raise them like he had been taught, block out all thoughts and feelings aside from his own. He was John Hamish Watson, not Sherlock Holmes, not anyone else.

 

“What are you babbling about now?”

 

Sherlock’s anger eased into something resembling annoyed confusion. Good. Annoyed and confused, John could deal with that. There were a few heartbeats of silence that fell between the two men; Sherlock as he awaited his answer, John as he slipped behind his barriers. Soon, his thoughts were entirely his own and no one else’s.

 

John inhaled deep, then exhaled. “Look, I snapped. Sorry bout that,” he said, deliberately avoiding Sherlock’s question. He really had no desire to delve into the deep detailed explanations of the inner workings of a Gleaner. A metaphysical debate with Sherlock Holmes was something he endeavoured to avoid like the plague. Besides, talking about himself meant reliving the experiences of being in the Hom— He recoiled at the memories. Again, no. No thank you.

 

“‘Turn into a bloody vegetable’, what did you mean by that?” Sherlock persisted. His eyes pierced into John as he watched him from the sofa.

 

“It’s nothing. Just let it drop, alright?” John shook his head, he knew Sherlock would delve deeper –with or without his awareness was a different debate, but at the moment, it was something he could not deal with. “What do you need help with? I might not be able to help with the memory thing, but I can do some legwork. We could split up and cover more ground or something.”

 

Sherlock did not seem placated by the obvious shift in topics, but he relented all the same. “And what if a star were to fall when you were? That would defeat the purpose of splitting up, wouldn’t it?”

“If that happened, then I’d call you and wait until you arrive. Not like I have any other choice,” John replied with a shrug.

 

“And if I were in the middle of a breakthrough and wouldn’t get there for hours?”

 

John did not respond right away, instead, he peered down into those ice-blue eyes, holding them with his firm stare. His next words were strong and resolute.

 

“Then I’d wait there for hours.”

 

There was another stagnant pause between them.

 

Eventually, Sherlock was the first to break it. Standing up from the sofa, his eyes did a slow sweep of the flat they shared. He waved his hand toward the stack of newspapers on the kitchen table. “Start with local news. Missing people, obituaries, anything you deem relevant.” His hand fell to his side; the gears of his mind working at full speed as he planned his next move. The movements were brisk and efficient as he strode past John and towards the coat rack. “I’ll be back later. You may be bound to your district, but I am a free man.”

 

John couldn’t suppress his flinch. “You’re leaving the district? What if I need you for a burial?”

 

“‘Then I’d wait there for hours’,” Sherlock replied, quoting John’s previous words. It sounded wrong coming from that rich baritone voice; was Sherlock mocking him? “Have some faith John, I will come if you call.”

 

Though John’s head remained where it was, his gaze shifted away. “You better. Getting another Digger on such short notice would be a pain.”

 

John could practically feel the smug smile with the next reply. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have a problem getting another Gravedigger, but they would be so frightfully  _dull_ , wouldn’t they?” The sound of footsteps heading towards the door. “Get started on that research, I expect useful data when I get back.”

 

His ears were assaulted by the sound of the door slamming. And then, for the first time in a long while, John was alone.

 


	3. Data

——

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

 

——

 

John hated this place. Everywhere he went made his head hurt, he always felt sick and everyone was older than him. They looked down on him and regarded him with scorn; no one played with him, talked to him and there was nothing fun to do aside from going to that horrid school. He missed his parents, his grandmother —hell, he even missed  _Harry_. John wasn’t even eight yet and he was already living far away from home. Unsurprisingly, he was terrified.

 

Pulling up the clean, pristine sheets of his bed, John curled under them. In his naive, innocent mind, he believed that the simple piece of cloth could protect him from the outside world, could block out those conflicting emotions that threatened to drown him. It did no such thing, but it did make him feel slightly better.

 

He had his own room in this strange facility but it lacked everything his old bedroom had. The walls were bare when they should have born posters of his favourite football team, his desk empty when it should have been covered in parts of his model plane. He hated it here, he wanted to go home.

 

John wondered how his family was doing; was his father dealing with this situation with a stiff upper lip as he usually had? Was his sister feeling guilty for tattling on him? How about his mother? Was she breaking down and crying now that she no longer had her son? Oh, he missed her… Suddenly, those embarrassing kisses on the cheek and the too-tight hugs had become something he desperately needed.

 

John fisted the sheets tight enough for his knuckles to turn white and tucked further in on himself. The bronze collar around his neck was uncomfortable and alien, but he did nothing to remove it. The last time he did, it had shocked him; he hadn’t tried again.

 

Sobs were threatening to escape from him, he did his best to bite them back. However, when the tears began to spill from his eyes, he was no longer able to fight back the onslaught of hiccups and sniffles. He felt sick with nausea and his heart ached as the gripping sensation of loneliness took him.

 

“I want to go home,” he whimpered to the empty room.

 

~*~

 

John opened his eyes to find himself staring at the ceiling. Oh, had he dozed off? It was odd, he hadn’t thought of the Homestead in a while… His back ached and protested to his position; having fallen asleep in his armchair, it wasn’t surprising that his body was disagreeing with him. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. The newspaper on his lap served as a makeshift blanket for his thighs, though it did little to retain the heat.

 

He groaned and leant forward before rising to his feet, the newspaper was carelessly thrown back onto the chair as he worked out the kinks in his spine. With a satisfying series of cracks and pops, John raised his arms above his head, lacing his fingers together to stretch the weary tendons and muscles. Ah, that felt good. He rolled his head from side to side, feeling the all too familiar press of metal against his jaw as he did.

 

He shook his head. Never mind about that, he still needed to go through those newspapers. He had bought a couple shortly after Sherlock had left, ranging from sensational tabloids to the more subdued broadsheets. Even if the  _Daily Star_  had a tendency to blow everything out of proportion, at least it was good for cross-referencing, if nothing else. So far, there had been a few suspicious deaths, three dead and found in places they had no reason to be. All suspected suicide after having taken a poison of some sort.

 

All of them, John had disdainfully noted, were out of his district.

 

There were many shortcomings of being a Gleaner but by far, one of the worst things was probably being trapped. Each Gleaner was confined to their district of care and each district was measured depending on the Gleaner’s strength. Even if John was considered as a very adept Gleaner, it didn’t change the fact that he only had a 1.5 mile radius to thrive in.  _1.5 miles_. Anything beyond that and his collar would alert the authorities.

 

Of course, he had heard stories of District Gleaners throwing away their collars when it got too much. John had thought of these people as fools; after all, how would a Gleaner react when a star began to cry and they had to search  _blind_  in the streets of London? There were too many secret passages, nooks and crannies a fallen star could land, to be in the vicinity of one without a tracker was suicide. It wasn’t just London, it was the same for any place the Gleaner may have tried to escape to.

 

He supposed that he was to be a District Gleaner for the rest of his life, or at least until the stars stopped calling out to him. Whenever the hell that may be; usually around sixty according to the records, though John had known Gleaners as old as seventy to still continue their service.

 

Or maybe he could just make a Pledge.

 

John was unable to stop the loud bark of derisive laughter that escaped him. A Pledge? Who the hell would want to make a Pledge with him? Better yet, who would he trust enough to make a Pledge with? The idea of sharing your soul with a loved one for all eternity may have seemed appealing on paper but in terms of practicality, it was anything but. Spending the rest of his life chained to someone who could grow sick of him? John didn’t want something like that; no thanks. He’d stick with being a District Gleaner that couldn’t hold onto a Gravedigger for any longer than three weeks.

That being said, Sherlock had lasted far longer than he had ever expected. John smiled to himself and shook his head, walking ahead, he made his way towards his laptop and picked it up. Alright, time to consult Google.

 

~*~

 

Three murders and soon to be a fourth. All the bodies found in locations they never frequented, all died in the same way; so far, so obvious. What connection did they have? Well, they had to have been murdered, their deaths corresponded with the dates of stars falling —He should know, he checked John’s reports; the quarterly ones that showed the star fall of the whole of London. Think, think! All of the deaths were self-administered, appearing as if they had committed suicide.

 

Wrong, wrong, wrong! The Yard were idiots if they couldn’t see the connection between star fall and the deaths.

 

He rolled his eyes. But then again, the whole world was full of idiots, wasn’t it? Dull, insipid idiots that did nothing but make him lose faith in the human race. So far in his lifetime, Sherlock had only met four interesting people. Two of them had been fleeting, the third was his own brother and the fourth one, the newest addition to his life; couldn’t cover a distance further than 1.5 miles.

 

Needless to say, that was infuriating.

 

Sherlock shook his head. There were so many things about the Gleaner world he did not understand. And though he had researched it extensively when John had moved in, there were still gaping holes in his knowledge. Internet sources were very good at telling him facts but never offered a reason; for example, he was aware of John’s inability to cross over the invisible boundary of his District but had never been told  _why_. John was disinclined to share information, brushing him off instantly when the topics were mentioned. Sure, Sherlock could theorise and probe all he wanted but without any form of confirmation, it would only be a theory. It would be foolish to come to a conclusion without sufficient data.

 

Sherlock knocked over a bin in annoyance. When he heard the outcry of disgust from a passerby, he simply lifted his left hand and flashed the silver bangle on his wrist. The man begrudgingly walked past. His Gravedigger bangle was such a handy little trinket, wasn’t it? It allowed him to deface public property as he pleased; one could only imagine the thousands of experiments he could conduct with this bangle as his protection. What if he were to—

 

No, he was getting distracted. The murder, the murder! What did they all have in common? Sherlock’s mind came up blank and an enraged snarl left his lips. He needed more data! God, if only he could access the Yard’s databases or— Wait. Why couldn’t he? He certainly had enough knowledge in the ways of hacking to do so without being caught and what better way to practice than to start big? A grin tugged at the corners of his lips. Wonderful, now where was the nearest internet cafe?

 

Passing by a shop window, Sherlock paused to catch his reflection. Oh dear, he must do something about his appearance. He needed to look more, ugh,  _normal_.

 

~*~

 

“Well, that was  _enlightening_ ,” Sherlock said as he entered the living room. His hair, which had been slicked back, was now being mussed up into the usual bird’s nest style. He threw the pair of clear lens glasses to the side, not caring in the slightest if it had cracked on contact.  

 

Somewhat used to the Gravedigger’s penchant to play dress up, John ignored these little actions. He gave his copy of the  _Guardian_  one last look and cocked his head. “What was?” Christ, his eyes hurt. How long had he been going at this? Too long, it felt.

 

Sherlock beamed at him as he threw himself into his chair, not even bothering to pull off his coat. “Hacking into Scotland Yard—”

 

John’s eyes widened. “You  _what_?”

 

“—Their security is terrifyingly awful, did you know that?” Sherlock continued, as if John had never spoken. “I got all the data I needed in seconds,” at this point, he had pulled out a memory stick from his pocket.

 

“Sherlock, that’s illegal!” John spluttered.

 

The Gravedigger waved his hand flippantly. “The end justify the means, John. I got what I needed and I think I have enough to go on. All we need to do is to wait for the murderer to slip up.”

 

Struggling to keep up with the human whirlwind, it took John a few seconds to come up with a coherent response. “Wait, ‘we’?” he eventually asked.

 

Sherlock blinked and turned his head. “Well, yes. Weren’t you the one who said that you wanted to catch this person?” Stopping for the briefest of milliseconds to take in John’s appearance and reaction, he sighed. “Oh, of course. We are at a disadvantage with your little…condition.”

 

“Sherlock,” John warned.

 

“And I mean ‘condition’ in the most delicate sense.”

 

“Sherlock. Shut up. Just, shut up for a moment and let me catch up,” John snapped. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he waited until the urge to punch Sherlock in the face faded. “Alright, what did you learn? And speak  _slowly_ , please.”

 

Sherlock heaved a long suffering sigh and began to retell his discoveries of the day. Slowly, as John had insisted.

 

~*~

 

Surprisingly enough, despite his hacking of Scotland Yard’s database, Sherlock was able to get the Yard to help him on the case. After proving himself by solving a few cold cases in scant seconds, they reluctantly took him onboard. John was sure to keep Sherlock in check when he could, meaning, when the officers visited them in Baker St.

 

“Are you sure this is okay?” John asked, as he poured out the cup of tea for the exhausted looking DI. Sherlock was gallivanting over London, torturing poor officers for data; unfortunately for them, anything they spouted was dismissed as ‘useless’ or ‘unimportant’. Sherlock would be there for hours.

Lestrade took the cup with a grateful smile. “Don’t have a choice, do we? I mean, s’all well and good waiting around but if this guy isn’t caught soon, there’s a greater chance of mutations.”

 

John turned his head and frowned. “You’ve seen the reports, huh?”

 

Lestrade avoided eye contact and nodded slowly. “You’re all being overworked, aren’t you?”

 

John smiled wryly. “So are you. There’s been a spike in stars lately, care to shed some light?” He settled down into the chair opposite, grabbing a cup for himself as he watched Lestrade. It was a good thing that they were on somewhat friendly terms, he was afraid that the DI was still holding ill will over the hole Sherlock had forcefully created in the Euston Square station. That little fiasco had made the news.

 

“We’ve no idea what’s gotten into the criminal masses lately, it’s like they’ve suddenly decided to go on a full attack.” He grimaced. “What am I doing? I shouldn’t be sharin’ this information with a civilian.” With a groan, Lestrade placed the cup onto the table and buried his face into his hands. “God, I must be really fucking desperate to ask for help from you guys.”

 

John felt a twinge of sympathy. Exhausted, stressed, overworked, John knew these feelings all too well. “We’ll do our best to help. I know it’s against the rules to ask for outside help and all, but we’re working towards the same goal, right?”

 

“Yeah, guess you’re right. We won’t make a habit of asking Sherlock for help, let’s just make that clear. He’s a right prick, ain’t he?”

 

John chuckled. “You’re not the one living with him.”

 

“It’d be nice if you to keep him in line when he’s off interrogating—” Lestrade’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes wide as realisation struck him.

 

The silence that stretched between them was so thick it was almost tangible.

 

Rubbing the back of his neck, the DI did his best to look at anything but John. “Ah… sorry.”

 

John shifted his gaze away, his hands clenching in his lap for the briefest of seconds before loosening. “It’s fine. You handle mutations on the side, right?” From his peripheral vision, he saw

 

Lestrade nod. “Have there been any recently?”

 

Lestrade was thoughtful for a little while, visibly debating whether to reveal such information. “Yeah, I think there was one near Paddington… took a while to take it down. Fast fuckers, the lot of them.”

 

“A-and the Gleaner?” John asked, almost choking on his words as he did. Paddington? That was so close… What if— No, focus. He needed to know; it was always painful to hear about mutations, but this was necessary.

 

“Replaced.”

 

Lestrade was omitting information, John could tell from the way the DI shifted uncomfortably. Not to mention that in the second John let down his shields, he could feel the man radiating waves of unease and anxiety. It didn’t matter, he knew what Lestrade was hiding whether he said it or not. The tiny seed of dread in his heart began to sprout; all Gleaners were aware of what happened should a mutation occur, the fate that awaited them was one worse than death.

 

There was another eternity of silence.

 

When it was broken, it was by neither man but instead, a ringing of the phone. Lestrade offered a smile as he took the call, meaning to be apologetic though both of them knew it was thinly veiled relief more than anything else.

 

John hadn’t paid much attention to the one sided argument as he sipped his tea, though he was acutely aware of the name ‘Sherlock’ being mentioned once or twice. When Lestrade was finished, he rose from his chair and grabbed his coat with a sense of urgency.

 

“Your Digger’s a right twat, you know that? How do you deal with him? He’s completely abusing his power to deface public property.”

 

John smirked. “Please remember I can’t come down to pick him up if he needs bail.”

His response was a low chuckle. “For the sake of everyone’s sanity, I hope we find this murderer soon.”

 

“Everyone but Sherlock’s, because frankly, I don’t remember him ever being sane,” John corrected. The two men shared a smile of mutual respect before the DI eventually rushed out the flat.

 

John groaned and allowed his head to roll back onto his chair. Alone again. He was a Gleaner, one in one hundred thousand, a necessary existence for life to continue smoothly. He had been called a ‘blessed one’ and people’s safety depended on him. Fallen souls thanked him when they were able to move on in peace. Without people like him, the world would have fallen to ruin by now.

 

So, why did he feel so fucking useless?

 


	4. Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are much appreciated o u o

_——_

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

_——_

_  
_

“John, this is wonderful!” Sherlock cried as he bounded into the room. In his arms, he carried a pink suitcase; a garish shade that was quite offending to the eye, obviously it wasn’t Sherlock’s. A moment’s pause. Wait, had that meant that he had stolen it? John wasn’t able to dwell on it.  
“Four murders and now a note, the murderer has made a mistake and oh, this is Christmas!”

 

John blinked, his hand still hovering mid air over the series of notes he had scribbled out. His eyes lingered on the suitcase for a little longer before glancing up at his flatmate. “You are far too happy about this.”

 

Sherlock dropped the suitcase onto the sofa. “Of course I am. Do you not understand the rush, the thrill of the chase?” With a wide manic smile, Sherlock strode across the room and in one sweeping motion, grasped John by the shoulders. “This feeling is simply euphoric.”

 

John stilled, staring into those clear blue eyes with a slack jaw and a blank mind. In the two months he had known Sherlock, he had never seen the man look so alive. It was a little unnerving, like a corpse that had been reanimated. When he was released, he slumped into his chair with a sigh of relief. That piercing stare was far too much, he had felt as if he was being dissected; intrusive, dehumanised, the list of feelings went on. Simply put, he didn’t want to relive the moment again.

 

“‘Rachel’, what could that mean? She had scraped it into floorboards. No matter!” Sherlock continued to ramble, now pivoting on his heel to move back to the suitcase. Grabbing a chair along the way, he hastily placed it in front of the fireplace and practically threw the suitcase onto the seat; muttering off observations the whole time. He threw open the case with a flourish and his head shot up, holding John with his gaze once more. “John, come over here!”

 

And what choice did he have, but to obey? With a muted sigh, John rose to his feet and followed after. His steps were slow and careful, as if afraid that he’d set off the human whirlwind into a greater frenzy. “Okay, now what?” he asked, a little exasperated as he peered into the contents of the suitcase.

 

John folded his arms and cocked his head, following Sherlock’s eyes to the case: a change of clothes, a bottle of body lotion, toiletries and a cheap paperback —romance, judging by John’s quick skimming of the blurb. Nothing out of the ordinary, it seemed like a perfectly normal overnight case.

 

“What am I looking at?”

 

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. “Oh, do think! Are you even trying?” At the Gleaner’s scowl, Sherlock relented. “Something’s missing, don’t you see?”

 

“How can I see something that’s missing?” John countered.

 

“Her phone! Her phone is missing. This woman was clever, had a string of lovers. Her phone was not on her person at the crime scene and not in her case either —not that she would be careless enough to leave it in the case, but that’s beside the point. So the question remains, where could her phone be?”

 

John was struck with a bolt of realisation. “The murderer! The murderer must have the phone!”

 

Sherlock clapped his hands in glee. “Very good! Now we must hurry,” he said in a rush, his hands quickly moving towards the attached card to the suitcase handle as he did. “The number on the card, send a message to it.”

 

It was hard not to be swept up in the moment, but as John began to type out the number into his phone, he stilled. “Wait, this case, it belonged to—”

 

“Yes, yes, it belonged to the victim. The murdered found it and got rid of it because it drew attention to him. Must be male, no man could have this blinding case without attracting a few odd looks,” Sherlock rattled, he shook his head to clear himself of his deductions. “Hurry up!”

 

“Does Lestrade know you have this? It’s a piece of evidence!”

 

“Doesn’t matter, please don’t waste my time further,” Sherlock snapped, with a moue of irritation. “Alright, these words exactly. ‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come.’”

 

John paused. “You blacked out?”

 

Sherlock blinked, a little lost. “What? Oh, no! No, have you sent it?” John nodded.

 

No sooner had the words left his mouth did the phone begin to ring. John froze and stared at his phone as if he had been holding an unpinned grenade. Though to be fair, the analogy was closer to the mark than he wanted to admit. “W-what do I do?” John stuttered, looking at Sherlock with fear in his eyes. “I just texted a murderer, didn’t I?” he asked, when he noticed that the number had been withheld.

 

Sherlock’s smile grew wide. “You’re catching on. It seems that he’s panicking. Had his victim not died? Would she live to tell the tale? Oh, isn’t this just exhilarating, John?”

 

John opened his mouth, ready to snap that this was in fact, not ‘exhilarating’ but the phone had stopped its shrill cry, leaving the pair in silence. John gave his mobile one last cautious look and allowed his shoulders to slump. “Just, what was the point of that?”

 

If Sherlock’s smile had been any wider, his face would’ve cracked in two. “Just proving a theory. Should we head to dinner? There’s a nice Italian place on Northumberland. You look famished.”

 

There was a flash of pain on John’s face. Between all the deductions and suitcases and potential life-threatening texts, he had completely forgotten about his little…condition. For those few scant minutes, he had allowed himself to feel normal and it was glorious. But with that one singular question, reality had come crashing down on him. He wasn’t normal, who was he fooling? His life was contained to 1.5 miles and always will be until the stars stopped calling out to him.

 

“Sherlock, you know I can’t.” He ducked his head down and rubbed at his neck; the mocking metal of his collar chilled his fingertips, anchoring his abnormality for the world to see.

 

“I arranged for your replacements.”

 

John’s head snapped up. “W-what? How? Gleaner replacement requests take up to weeks to process!”

 

“I pulled a few strings, now come along. We need to hurry and meet our murderer. For the next twenty-four hours, you’re a free man, don’t waste the opportunity.” Sherlock’s mood hadn’t dropped, if anything, the man looked even more excited knowing that John could join him. He reached out, his fingers curling around the Gleaner’s wrist before pulling him out of the room.

 

As much as he wanted to simply follow along without a single notion of protest, John held his ground and pulled his hand back. “Wait a moment! H-how did you even—” He stopped when it clicked into place and a frown settled onto his face. “Mycroft.”

 

At the name. Sherlock’s smile fell and the all too familiar look of annoyance replaced it. “Yes, yes, Mycroft. Now can we please go? We’ve dawdled enough. The murderer would have been and gone by the time we arrive!”

 

Well, what choice did he have, but to obey? A slow grin crept onto John’s face. Turning back to grab his coat, he swiftly rushed to catch up to the Gravedigger.

 

“Oh, and grab the netbook too, I think I’d like to do some work while we’re there.”

 

~*~

 

How long had it been since he’d last been out of his district? Far too long, far too long! Three years, in fact. Three years of being trapped in that 1.5 mile cage and oh, it was simply glorious being free! John’s head was craned up, looking left and right at the unfamiliar neon signs and street lamps; never had he had the chance to explore London like this. He felt as if he was a bird that had discovered how to fly. It was overwhelming, it was exciting, it was an indescribable emotion that welled up within his chest. The closest description he could think of was euphoric, his vocabulary wasn’t extensive enough to think of anything more profound.

 

In John’s mind, the taxi ride to Northumberland Street seemed far too short, he needed more time to take in his surroundings. In the end, it didn’t matter all too much; he intended to enjoy the next twenty-two hours of freedom to the max. Stepping out of the taxi, John placed his hands into his pockets and scanned the area. It looked so similar to Baker Street, in terms of infrastructure and architecture, but the placements were all wrong, the people wandering about on the pavement and the street sign, all of these things told him that he was no longer in his district.

 

“John, over here,” Sherlock said, waving his hand to direct John’s attention to the restaurant ahead of them.

 

John nodded, to let Sherlock know that he had heard but had hesitated in following. Looking around once more, he made sure to commit every little detail to memory before jogging after the Gravedigger. Who knew when he’d be able to leave his district again? He was going to remember every last minute of this day, even if it did ‘fill up valuable space on his hard drive’ as Sherlock had once so eloquently put it.

 

The restaurant was small, but not stifling; a chic, classy and modern establishment that John had frequently seen advertised in the glossy magazines at the newsagents. He glanced around, the room was dimly lit with candles adorning each table and all around, couples and smartly dressed patrons were enjoying the calm and gentle atmosphere the place exuded. With this, John couldn’t help but look down at his own attire, suddenly feeling severely underdressed, he closed his coat a little tighter around himself and ducked his head down, unable to meet the eyes of any of the customers.

 

“We’re not staying for too long,” Sherlock stated. Striding over to the booth by the window, he flopped down without an ounce of grace. He folded his arms and stared out the window; his very being vibrating with impatience as he did, if his rapid foot tapping had been any indication.

 

Unable to do much else, John sat down in the seat opposite him and peered out the window as well. “What are we looking at?”

 

“You’ll know when you see it,” Sherlock replied tersely. “Order something to eat, we don’t know how long we’ll be.”

 

Taking the menu from its place on the table, John had almost recoiled at the prices listed on the side. “I can’t afford this…” He had said this in a hushed voice, the last thing he wanted was to be shot with scornful looks from the people around him. The waiter that had shown them their table had given John a derisive glance and he was already feeling out of place, he didn’t need this to confirm it.

 

“I’ll pay. Money isn’t an issue right now.”

 

He opened his mouth but when no sound came out, he closed it. There were times when further questioning was needed, but this was not one of them. So instead, John peered at the list and decided to pick the cheapest but most filling meal he could find. Steak and tomato pasta bake, good enough. “What about you?” he asked.

 

“How could I eat at such a crucial moment? Digestion would slow me down,” Sherlock dismissed, his eyes not once leaving the scene outside.

 

As a doctor, John wanted to point out that not only was such logic ludicrous, it was also very dangerous. He soon decided against it. Tonight was his night of freedom, he wasn’t going to ruin it by getting into a petty argument. He’d just have to make sure that the man ate later.

 

When the meal arrived, John wasted no time in beginning to eat. Sherlock had paid the moment the food and drink had been set down; explaining that because they could leave at any moment, being chased after for dining and dashing was something he wished to avoid. Too many complications, he added as an afterthought. And so, John ate in a companionable silence, watching as the light from outside flitted over Sherlock’s face.

 

He had always thought of the Gravedigger as having an ethereal sort of beauty, in all his thirty-seven years, John had never met a person like Sherlock. It was odd, such pale skin should’ve looked unhealthy, those ice-coloured eyes should’ve been disturbing and that thin body should’ve looked sickly, but somehow, Sherlock was able to pull all these elements together and make it work. It made him wonder, it was obvious that Sherlock could go into modelling, with that face. Heavens knew that it paid a lot better than being a Gravedigger; for what plausible reason did Sherlock have for becoming a Gravedigger? The excitement? Frankly, it wasn’t worth the grief.

 

“You have questions,” Sherlock said abruptly.

 

John jolted out of his thoughts and nodded. “Yeah, but it’s not really something I’d like to ask now.”

 

Sherlock nodded, obviously not paying attention. “Then cease your useless thinking, it’s distracting.”

 

To stop the biting remark that threatened to escape his lips, John quickly shoved another forkful of steak into his mouth. In his mind, he cursed Sherlock’s lack of social skills and how frustrating it could be dealing with— “Rachel.”

 

Sherlock turned his head towards him. “Excuse me?”

 

John’s mind cleared of all previous thoughts as he chased after the thin line of logic that appeared before him. “Rachel. What if it’s like a password or something? Sometimes people use names of loved ones as passwords.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second. In a flash, he was leaning over the table, grasping John firmly by the sides of his face and drawing in close; Sherlock’s eyes bright with glee and exhilaration. Just looking at him, John could see the thousands of theories and thoughts whirling round in his mind. “John, you are brilliant! Of course! A password, why hadn’t I thought of that?”

 

John flushed, not just because of Sherlock’s firmly fixed gaze and the rarely sang praise, but also because of the shocked looks he was currently receiving from the customers around him. To the untrained eye, it would have appeared as if Sherlock had accepted a proposal or something as equally absurd. But before John had a chance to calmly tell Sherlock of social conduct, his face was released and Sherlock was rushing to open up his netbook.

 

“The phone was planted on the murderer so he could be located. And the password —once again, brilliant, John, is our key to find him! Oh, this is wonderful.” His fingers were a blur as he tapped into the restaurant’s wi-fi, punching in a web address and the series of credentials needed to access the phone’s GPS. His body stilled for a full second before his head snapped up, his eyes wild as his gaze fixed onto the single taxi outside.

 

Without word or warning, Sherlock leapt to his feet and ran outside; leaving John alone with his coat, netbook and a look of confusion.

 

~*~

 

It took John a few minutes to recover from his shock but when he realised that he was being stared at and was on the receiving end of many pitiful looks, he lowered his head and scooted over to check Sherlock’s netbook. Just what had been so important that made him rush off like that? He gingerly picked up the contraption, as if he was afraid that it would explode on him at any moment and when he saw what was on the screen, he very nearly dropped it.

 

Like Sherlock, his head had snapped up and he was looking out the window.

 

Only to find that both taxi and Sherlock were no longer in sight.

 

That idiot! How could he run off head first and be so bloody reckless! Panic filled John, oh God, what was he to do? His flatmate had ran after a murderer! No, think calmly, deep breaths. Sherlock was too hard headed to die so easily. Calm down. John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, recalling the techniques he had been taught, he soon felt his heartbeat return to normal. Thankfully, the stares had ceased as well. Good.

 

John stood up slowly, swiping the netbook and the coat, all the while, exuding a controlled, relaxed air. He nodded to the waiter when he left the restaurant, and carried on walking, without once looking back.

 

No one seemed to notice the missing steak knife.


	5. Chess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still slowly catching up to the chapters on tumblr. Thank you for all the bookmarks and kudos so far; as always, I look forward to your comments.

——

 

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

 

——

 

Sherlock’s mind was whirling. The murderer was a cabbie, obvious! Oh, so obvious, why hadn’t he thought of that sooner? A cabbie that was right there, less than a yard away. He thrust his hand into his pocket, dialling the number he had recently set into the memory. Lifting his phone to his ear, he kept his eyes trained on the cabbie, waiting for the precise moment when he— Bingo. There. The man was picking up a phone. Pink. Of course.

 

Sherlock stood close enough to be noticed and kept his voice steady when he spoke, no point letting the murderer know that he was excited. “So, how did you get them to take the poison?” he asked casually. He watched the man still before quickly looking around, tensing when he saw him.

 

The cabbie rolled down the window. His face aged and weathered, unsuspecting and innocent looking. It was no wonder he hadn’t been caught yet, who would suspect such a pleasant looking man to be a ruthless murderer? “Fancy a lift, mate?”

 

Sherlock smiled and hung up. Replacing his phone back into his pocket, he approached the taxi and stepped in.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock didn’t bother making much conversation when he was taken away. Instead, he was motionless, mentally cataloguing his observations. His body remained still, though his eyes traversed the interior of the taxi with trained ease. A family photo with the mother cut out, shaving foam behind the cabbie’s left ear, worn clothing but a pressed shirt, all of these things helped to move the jigsaw pieces into place. A worn old tale, told many times before with little variation. He hoped whatever he discovered would make the story a bit more interesting.

 

He tapped his foot impatiently, glaring out of the window as he wondered when they would arrive at their location. He understood the need to be discreet and mysterious, but that didn’t mean that he had to like it.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, the silence was broken.

 

“You have a name, sir?” The cabbie asked.

 

“Sherlock Holmes.” No point using a pseudonym, the case was going to be closed tonight anyway.

 

“So you’re a Digger, huh? Saw yer Gleaner. Has an admirer, y’know.”

 

Sherlock’s head snapped up, his eyes now alert, his mind sharp and focused. An admirer, of John’s? But why? John was just another Gleaner, nothing special. Perhaps the admirer was the reason for the influx of stars? Or simply a stalker? So many questions, not enough answers. He needed to drag this out further.

 

“Oh?” he asked, trying to remain calm. Nonchalance, that was something he needed if he was to pursue this line of questioning. “Surprising, considering his condition.”

 

“Ah, but he’s such a busy bee. ‘Ardest workin’ Gleaner o’ the lot.”

 

Before Sherlock had a chance to respond, the taxi halted. About time. He closed his mouth and peered out the windshield. Roland Kerr Further Education College. Overlooked, inconspicuous, a puzzling place to find a body in the morning; which was exactly what the cabbie wanted. Ingenious.

 

Sherlock remained where he was, defiant as he leaned back into the seat. With his lips pressed into a thin line he peered at the cabbie, silent and resolute. This was a game of chess, and it was his opponent’s move.

 

“Ere we are. Com’mon Mister Holmes, out you get.” Spielmann Gambit, interesting.

 

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and folded his arms. “Why?” He outright groaned when a gun appeared in his line of vision. How predictable. Knight to D5. “Dull. So this was how you killed your victims? Threatened them at gunpoint?” He was disappointed if that was truly the case.  

 

The cabbie smiled. “No, course not. Far more interestin’ than that.” He pulled the gun back. “Don’t need this with you, don’t look the kind that’d be scared. You’d follow, wouldn’t ya? Cos you wanna know.” He turned, leaning forward to switch off the engine before exiting the car.

 

Oh, tactical retreat? Or simply baiting? Sherlock fought the smile that threatened to appear on his face. Perhaps this man wasn’t as dull as he thought. Alright. Two could play this game. Sherlock lifted himself from his seat and as the cabbie expected, followed after. He’ll take the bait for now, only to snatch victory at a moment’s notice.

 

Meaning; when he felt like it. He was never one to lose a game and this was no different.

 

~*~

 

They had ended up in one of the empty science labs; already cleaned and therefore deserted until the following morning. They would be undisrupted and their game would be played in peace. With the cabbie’s back to the door and Sherlock sitting directly across from him, Sherlock rested his elbows on the table and waited for his opponent’s move. A game of give and take, constantly exchanging blows until they ran out of pieces. How enthralling! Though Sherlock had no intention on ending this until he left with the information his mind thirsted for.

 

“You’re waitin’ for the good part, aren’t cha?”

 

As fun as the game was, Sherlock wished that his opponent didn’t waste his time with such theatrical drivel. He understood that common people needed time to think and plan their moves, but that didn’t meant that he cared for it. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, a sign of impatience.

 

His opponent rolled his eyes and sighed. Reaching into his pockets, he pulled out a small clear bottle, inside; it contained three white and red-speckled pills. Sherlock’s gaze lingered for a full three seconds before shifting it to the cabbie. There was a catch, they both knew it and he was sick of the unnecessary waiting.

 

A beat of silence passed, and then another before a second bottle was pulled out from the other pocket. Identical in every way, the bottle was placed down beside the first. Ah, now he understood.

 

“Startin’ ta make more sense now, Mister Holmes?”

 

“Two bottles, alike in every way. One containing the poison, the other containing a placebo; you made the victims take one. Interesting, but not quite as imaginative as I expected.” Then again, nothing ever met his expectations.

 

The cabbie smirked. “Mostly right, cept for the fact that I take whatever you leave.”

 

“And you know which one’s which.”

 

“‘O course, more fun that way. So what will it be, Mister Holmes? We’re playin’ a game o chess an’ it’s your move.”

 

Sherlock scowled and leaned forward. “It’s  _chance_ ,” he said slowly.

 

“Nah, it’s a game an’ I’ve won four times. Maybe God loves me,” he said with a short chuckle.  

 

Sherlock lifted his palm and rested his cheek upon it. “Either way, you’re wasted as a cabbie.” His eyes narrowed. “Why would you—” he stopped and focused his gaze on him. And then, it clicked. “Ah, I see now. You’re dying.”

 

He blinked, a little surprised before nodding slowly. He tapped his finger to his temple. “Aneurism, right ere. Don’t got too long left.”

 

Sherlock ignored the confirmation and continued on as the other had never spoken. “This isn’t a crime of hate, it’s of passion. Love is a more powerful as a motivator after all. Why— Oh, your children, of course. You loved them, so much it hurts. Your wife took them away, it’s clear as day from your state of dress and the shaving foam behind your ear. A dying man with nothing left to lose, going off on some mad killing spree, spurned by his lover. But your children, it revolves back to them. It always comes back to them. What’s in it for them?”

 

“Oh, you are good, aren’tcha?” His hand that held the gun waved around flippantly. “Don’t make a lotta money, as a cabbie. But this, this brings it in. For every person I kill, a bit a money goes to my kids. Gotta sponsor.” His eyes hardened and he aimed gun towards Sherlock. “‘Nough talk. Time to play, Mister Holmes.”

 

“Play  _what?_  It’s chance.”

 

“It’s chess.”

 

“And if I refuse?” The gun lifted and the finger on the trigger twitched. “How dull. I’ll take the gun.”

 

“Brave choice, but y’don’t really mean it.”

 

“The gun. Please.”

 

The room was silent when the trigger was pulled. —A flame burst forth from the gun’s barrel.

 

Sherlock didn’t even flinch. “I know a real gun when I see one.”

 

The cabbie chuckled and placed the lighter to the side. “The others didn’t.”

 

And now, he was bored. There was no point staying when there was nothing left to do. The cabbie had no strength over him. He made a move to stand and his hand lingered on the table as his feet touched the ground. What a waste of time this all was. He was ready to leave this farce behind when an image flashed into his mind. He froze. John. The cabbie knew John. “You said he had an admirer.”

 

The smile on his face was slow. “I’ll tell you more if you play the game. You can’t tell me you ain’t curious as ta which one’s the poison, can ya? ‘S slow actin’, so I’ll tell ya everything you wanna hear.”

 

Sherlock bit back the snarl and sat back down. “Fine,” he snapped as he snatched the bottle to his right.

 

“Ohh, interestin’. Good pill or bad? Who knows. On the count of three, let’s take our medicine,” he said as he unscrewed the top of the bottle.

 

Check. Sherlock thought bitterly to himself as he tipped a pill out from his bottle and lifted it to his lips. Had he lost? How hateful.

 

One.

 

Two.

 

Thr—

 

The door flew open with a crack.

 

~*~

 

Adrenaline was coursing through John’s veins when he kicked the door down, not bothering to check if it was locked or not first. He needed the element of surprise and jiggling with the door would only give him away. Through the small glass panel on the door, he could see the events clearly and he’d be damned if he was to let his friend die. Not when he knew he could prevent it.

 

The door flew open with a satisfying crack and he dashed forward, throwing aside Sherlock’s coat to the side and kicking the stool the murderer sat on. Swiftly, he caught the falling body, pinning his arms behind his back and pressed the steak knife to his throat. The cabbie didn’t even have a chance to blink. He applied gentle pressure, enough to draw a thin line of blood, but not enough to do permanent damage. Suddenly, John was very glad for those martial arts classes from the Homestead.

 

Sherlock stared dumbly at him, the pill still in his hand as he watched him in shock. “J-John?”

 

“You bloody idiot, what the hell were you thinking?” John all but screamed. The murderer was still beneath him, knowing that a wrong move forward would slit his throat wide open. Not a clean cut, but a messy jagged gash. “Following after a murderer like that, do you have a death wish?”

 

Sherlock’s cheeks coloured. From embarrassment? Anger? John didn’t care. The man shifted in his arms. “Don’t,” he warned. “Sherlock, find a rope or something, we have to tie him up until the police get here.”

 

The Gravedigger blinked once, then twice before checking the room to find something of a similar description. When he lifted his head a few moments later, his face paled. The horror was written all over his features caused a chill to run down John’s back. “JOHN, GET DOWN!”

 

John didn’t question it. Immediately, he released the man and dove to the side.

 

BANG.

 

Glass shattered, bone fractured and through the forehead of the cabbie, was one singular bullet hole.

 

John pushed himself up from the floor and his eyes snapped to the window, looking for any sign of the shooter. Aside from a singular light from the opposite window, there was nothing. No shadowy figure, nothing aside from a matching bullet hole in the glass.

 

Sherlock moved away from the window and gave John a quick glance over. “Are you alright?” He grew alarmed when John’s unsteady knees gave way and he fell to the floor. He quickly strode over to check for injuries.

 

“How did you know?” John breathed out when Sherlock was placated by his lack of visible wounds.

 

“There was a laser pointer aimed at his head,” he murmured. His eyes fell to the body a few yards away from them, blood now pooling around the lifeless frame. “Someone wanted him gone. He said too much.” Sherlock shook his head, dismissing whatever thoughts that were eluding him and he smiled weakly. “What you did there… that was, that was good.”

 

John returned the weak smile. “What, stealing a steak knife and pressing it against an old man’s throat?” he asked with a small amount of cynicism. “You were going to take that pill, weren’t you?”

 

“Of course not,” Sherlock huffed.

 

“Yes you were, you lanky git.” He rolled his eyes and shakily stood, he allowed Sherlock to hover about in case he fell again. Honestly, his heart was still beating too hard to care about his bruised pride.

 

“You brought my coat.”

 

John laughed at the absurdity of the statement. “Yeah, just hope that your netbook didn’t get smashed. I wrapped the coat round it.”

 

~*~

 

After long hours of arduous and frequently repeated statements, a sneakily disposed steak knife and a few cartons of Chinese food later, John and Sherlock had returned to 221B exhausted and sated. John fell into his armchair leaning back and closing his eyes as he let out a rush of air.

 

“God, that was tiring.”

 

Sherlock stood nearby, lost in thought as he paced back and forth. John ignored him, he was used to this by now and had learnt not to disturb Sherlock when he got into one of these agitated states. Not that it would make much difference, a tornado could hit London and he wouldn’t notice; not until he returned to the present and saw the pile of debris around his feet.

 

He let out a yawn, his hand barely covering his open mouth before Sherlock’s gaze snapped to him. His frame rigid, his eyes wide but focused.

 

“Why did you do that?”

 

John cocked his head to the side. “What, yawn?”

 

“No,” Sherlock spat in his usual ‘you’re an idiot’ voice. “ _That._  That thing you did today.”    

 

“Save your sorry behind?” He took Sherlock’s glare as a ‘yes’ and shrugged. “Sherlock, you’re my flatmate, my Gravedigger and believe it or not, you’re my  _friend_. Friends protect each other, be it from crazy cabbies or whatever.”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, as if he didn’t understand. He probably didn’t, human relationships were always beyond him. “Normal people wouldn’t go to such lengths.”

 

John tapped his collar. “I’m not normal.”

 

Sherlock blinked, once and then twice. The slow but warm smile that spread across his face caught John off guard. He had never seen such a sincere look on the Gravedigger’s face before, it was nice, it was a shame that Sherlock didn’t smile more often. Though he had to admit, he felt a little honoured that it was aimed at him.

 

“Well, thank you.”

 

John shone a smile equally as bright. “You better be grateful, I don’t want to be hunting for another Gravedigger so soon. I quite happen to like the one I have now.” He yawned again, this time, tears blurred his vision as he stared sleepily at Sherlock. Not quite believing what he saw, John blamed his fatigue, because there was no way that Sherlock would  _blush_. Right?

 

He didn’t question it further, because the next thing he knew, he had fallen asleep.

 

~*~

 

John grumbled under his breath as he kicked at the pavement beneath him. He was scuffing his shoes, but he didn’t care. Again! God, he was so sick of all his Gravediggers just leaving him! This one didn’t even last one week before they started whining that the job wasn’t for them. If they didn’t want to be a Gravedigger, they shouldn’t have taken the test and applied in the first place!

 

He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling his anger rise when he felt the familiar bangle bumping against his fingers. The Recruiting Office knew him by first name basis now, how pathetic. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was one of the best Gleaners they had —apparently, his finding and burial times were the quickest they’d ever seen, the Review Board would’ve sent him back to the Homestead after the fourth Digger, never mind the eightieth.  

 

He made his way into the all too familiar board room and waited for the members to go over the last Digger’s resignation form. More of the usual: ‘felt underappreciated,’, ‘unreasonable work hours’, ‘not enough pay’, all the same bull. Really, did people not read the introduction guide when they signed up for the job?

 

The same recited lip service was thrown about, procedures, rules and regulations and a thousand other things John simply couldn’t care less about. He wished that he could melt into the walls, get away from this redundant life he held. Get up, go to work, get dragged around to bury a soul, get high off the feeling, lose a Digger, find a new one, rinse and repeat. That was his life in a nutshell, and it had only been three years; how would he survive the next (potential) twenty? A part of him wished for death, anything to get away from this endless cycle.

 

“What the— Who are you?”

 

John lifted his head and looked over his shoulder to see a figure striding in, possessing an air of superiority and holding himself in such a way that made John think of royalty. He quickly dismissed the frivolous thought.

 

He was tall and thin, a little younger than he was. Pale —almost sickly, a mess of curls adorned the top of his head like a haphazard crown. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, I’ll be his new Gravedigger,” he declared, pointing to John.

 

“B-but, you’re not even on the recruitment list!” One of the members spluttered. John never bothered to learn his name. Instinctively knew that he wouldn’t like him enough to care.

 

“Does it matter? I need a Gleaner and he needs a Gravedigger. Now that that’s sorted; you, over there. Hand me the bangle,” he demanded, holding out his open palm.

 

John started. With his still brain swimming, he plunged his hand into his pocket and threw the silver bangle at the man; he caught it with ease and undid the latch, fastening it to his left wrist.

 

“There, consider the contract signed.” He lifted his head to shoot the board members a derisive glare. “Should you have any qualms, contact Mycroft Holmes. Good day.”

 

And as easily as he came in, he left, leaving the room in stunned silence.

 

John’s head looked to the board, to the open door and then back to the board. With his mind made up, he muttered a quick apology and chased after the mysterious Gravedigger in the long coat and navy scarf.

 

Sherlock Holmes. He hoped that he’d keep this one for a little longer than three weeks.

 


	6. Collar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and thoughts would be appreciated as always. Thank you for reading!

——

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

_——_

 

After the ‘Study in Pink’ incident, as John colloquially called it, the rate of falling stars had lessened. While John was more than grateful for the time off, he felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right and he didn’t know what; it was an instinctive feeling and as a Gleaner, he had learnt that those feelings were usually frightfully accurate. Gleaners always had amazing insight, he wasn’t sure if it was because he was in constant contact with dead people, but he decided that it was best not to delve too deeply into it.

 

This unease, what was the term? ‘The calm before the storm?’ No, that wasn’t right. It was more like ‘the calm before a torrential tsunami’, if the sickly feeling he had in the pit of his stomach was anything to go by. His discomfit was not helped by the fact that Sherlock had been acting suspiciously since the incident; well, more so than usual.

 

There were less experiments, for one. He had started researching heavily into Gleaner lore and star fall rates and though John was a little flattered by the sudden interest in his life, it was a little disturbing at times.

 

“John, I need to know the average active service time of a Gleaner,” he had demanded once, when John was on the toilet. “The timeframe for employment and Gravediggers, do they affect a Gleaner’s mentality?” he asked one night, when John was settling into bed. “How about—”

 

—And so on. It was all very tiring, if he was honest.

 

It wasn’t long before John found their flat stifling and that he needed out. After a quick shout to Sherlock to let him know that he’d be back later, he ignored the indignant cry and slammed the door shut, determined to escape as quick as humanly possible. Sherlock could interrogate him when he got back, when he felt less inclined to strangle him, John snidely thought to himself.

 

It was a Sunday mid-afternoon when he left 221B. John only worked part-time at the surgery; having explained that he was a Gleaner, they were reluctant to give him a full-time job. Not surprising, if he had been a Normal he would’ve felt the same way. After all, who would want to hire someone who could potentially run off at any given moment? It was unthinkable. If anything, John was incredibly lucky to have even gotten a job in the first place. Regardless, he had the day off and he wasn’t going to spend it indoors.

 

John shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, keeping his head low as he made his way down the pavement. From the edge of his vision, he could see a few glances aimed at his collar and he bit down the feeling of shame. The law required all Gleaners to have their collars visible at all times, but it didn’t mean that he liked it. He despised the alienating effect it had on people, they stared at him as if he was some sort of anomaly; moved away when they saw him, avoided direct eye contact. The only people that were the exception to this rule were: Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and Sherlock. Sarah from the surgery was starting to come around, but it was clear to him that she was uncomfortable in his presence.    

 

His steady stream of self-loathing was interrupted when he felt something hit his stomach. John started, blinking rapidly to take in his surroundings— pavement, shops, bright blue sky, before looking down to see what had hit him. A child? A young girl; around the age of eight, with auburn hair and bright brown eyes. She peered up at him, her face was alight with wonder.

 

John smiled weakly. “I’m sorry, are you alright?” He felt something in his chest jerk, his mind was starting to cloud at the edges. He shook it off. Tired, he was just tired.

 

The girl’s awe didn’t wane. “You’re a Gleaner! We were taught bout you at school, they said you’d have a collar, like a dog!”

 

John did his best to suppress his flinch. ‘Like a dog’? He hated how true that analogy was. He supposed he was a dog, always having to play fetch at a moment’s notice. At least he was housetrained, that was some small consolation, wasn’t it? He did his best to keep his smile light. “Yes, yes I am.”

 

“Is it true you get to talk to ghosts?” She asked quickly.

 

John chuckled. “Yes, I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

 

“And you’re like a good guy! You get to stop bad monsters from hurting everyone!” Her voice raised in volume as her excitement grew.

 

John simply nodded, though he had to admit that his small grin was becoming a little more genuine. It soon fell when he saw her shoulders slump and her excitement give way to something melancholic. Despite having known her for less than five minutes, John could only think that the look didn’t suit her.

 

“Then… why do people keep saying bad things about you? You do a good thing, right? Why do people keep saying bad things like you’re a bogeyman and that you don’t have feelings? People at school make fun of you. They laugh at me when I tell them they’re wrong.” Her fists clenched tight as she lowered her head. Squeezing her eyes shut, John could see that she was doing her best to fight back the tears. He felt an inkling of pain coming from her.

 

He felt his stomach lurch and fear began to seep into his veins. No, this girl couldn’t be…

 

“Mummy said when I’m older, I gotta go to a boarding school.” Her hands lifted to the sides of her head, pressing lightly. “Owie…”

 

Oh shit, she was. John quickly raised his shields; separate himself, he needed to stop his soul from calling out to her. “Where is your mummy? Or your daddy?” he asked, doing his best to remain calm. No, no, no! He needed to turn  _off_  his empathy, it was only going to make her suffer more!

 

Her eyes were flooding with tears as her migraine got worse. “I dunno, I lost them… My head hurts, Mister.”

 

“I know,” John muttered, starting to panic when he saw that they were drawing in a crowd. Damn, he couldn’t just leave her here! But staying was dangerous too, he couldn’t afford to hurt her more than he already had. She was still untrained, she couldn’t be around him. His heart pounded as he scanned the area, looking for anyone that held similarities to the girl. A flash of red hair, anything! The faceless mass blended into one; nothing, nothing at all, just judgemental glares and disdain. Blood was rushing to his ears, the hushed whispers grew louder.

_“Hey, look. A Gleaner, he’s made her cry.”_

_“Typical. Gleaners don’t give a toss bout normal people. He probably said something horrible to her.”_

_“Just cos they do a job no one else can, they think they’re better than everyone else. Wankers, the lot of em.”_

_“Shouldn’t we get her away from him?”_

_“What, you wanna go near him? Are you crazy? He’ll suck out your soul or something.”_

 

Shit, shit, shit! No, he was not in the mood for this! He felt his shields weaken as his dread increased. Feelings of hate and disgust was starting to seep in, as well as the girl’s distress. He felt sick, his head was swimming and more than anything, he was afraid. She was too young to be exposed to this, she didn’t deserve the mess of hysteria she was currently feeling, she didn’t need him breaking down her shields with his panic. He knew what she was experiencing all too well, no Gleaner deserved it, be it age eight or age sixteen.

 

“Melissa, get away from him now!”

 

Melissa, was that her name? She was properly crying now, whimpering softly as she clutched at her head. She was unable to move, pain had paralyzed her and the rush of feelings had clouded her ability to think. John watched as a woman in her early thirties ran to them, sweeping Melissa tightly into her arms, she shot him a hateful glare.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” she screamed. “It’s bad enough that she’s one of you, but now you have to torture her?”

 

It hurt to breathe. Taking a step back, John felt as if he was a deer caught in headlights. “I…” he began weakly.

 

“Get away from her!” she demanded, clutching at the sobbing girl even tighter.

 

The world was closing in on him, he could feel the anger and disgust palpating from the crowd in waves. Breathe, deep breaths. Stop looking. Stop looking! Why wouldn’t they stop looking at him? He needed to move, he needed to get away. Breathe, calm down, he was distressing Melissa further. Melissa didn’t deserve any of this. She had years before she was subjected to this.

_I want to go home, I don’t want to be here. Harry, why did you tell on me? Why did you tell mum about the star? Stopitstopitstopit! Stop the voices! Take me away from all these other Gleaners! Take me away from here!_

John’s breath stuttered as his brain came back online. The crowd was dispersing and the world started to expand, he could breathe, the pain in his chest was easing up. In the distance, he saw Melissa being carried away by her mother. Good. She would recover soon enough. He took a step back, intending to calmly walk away and to leave this whole fiasco behind him. One foot moved in front of another until finally, he was already running as fast as his feet would take him.

 

~*~

 

Unable to stand being in the public eye much longer, John decided to head straight home. He needed a cup of tea, some biscuits and a bit of Jeremy Kyle to take his mind off the horrors of the day. If he really wanted to push his luck, he would wish for Sherlock to shut up for a full five minutes —Though he knew the last thing was very unlikely. So when he climbed up the seventeen steps that led into the flat of 221B; he was disappointed to find a familiar figure sitting in his chair, idly playing with the handle of an umbrella.

 

“Good afternoon, John. How was your stroll?” Mycroft enquired, his voice smooth and diplomatic as always. It irritated John, if he was being frank.

 

And of course, sitting across from him was the younger Holmes, complete with moue of displeasure and a violin resting precariously on his shoulder. A part of John wondered if Sherlock was going to smash the instrument over Mycroft’s head. It was ludicrous, he knew. Sherlock’s violin was an extension of his body, to treat it poorly was to—

 

A set of needles. A seven percent solution. The false bottom of the bureau.

 

Never mind.

 

John’s eyes shifted away, refusing to show any signs of weakness to the British Government. He was weakened, he did not need salt poured onto his wounds. “It was fine.”

 

“I’ve heard all about your illegal departure. You had quite the night, didn’t you?”

 

John’s head snapped up, his eyes wide as he fixed his attention onto Mycroft. “Illegal? But Sherlock said—”

 

And then, there was that all knowing Holmesian look that he had come to abhor. Mycroft’s fingertips came together as his head lifted and tilted a mere fraction, his gaze lingering on John for a few scant seconds before sliding to Sherlock. “Did he really? I see,” he drawled.

 

John noted that the Sherlock’s grip on the violin tightened ever so slightly. He didn’t care. “I’m not going to get into trouble, am I?”

 

It was instinctive when his hand came to his neck, rubbing at the back of it. He felt the warm metal beneath his fingertips. Distant memories of his shock collar lingered at the edges of his mind; his body jerking and twitching as liquid fire spiked through every synapse. The pain; that intense pain that came with his disobedience and the fear that was carved into his hollow soul, those were sensations that he did not wish to relive. No, no, his collar was silver now. Not bronze, never bronze, never again, he reminded himself.

 

“Trouble? No, not this time,” Mycroft responded with a slow smile. “I had my hands full cleaning up after Sherlock’s mess, but you will not be punished for it. Rest assured. We were lucky that there were no stars that night, hmm?”

 

“Stop wasting our time and get to the point, Mycroft. You wanted John here for this announcement of yours, make it quick,” Sherlock snapped.

 

“Patient as ever,” Mycroft responded, his voice still as even as before. He motioned for John to come forward and when he did, a manila envelope was pulled from the side of the chair and placed into his hand.

 

Feeling the two sets of expectant eyes on him, John carefully extracted the envelope’s contents. Reports, nothing too surprising there. Or at least, that was what he thought until he saw the titles. They were reports of Gleaners that had gone missing in the past six months. John felt the blood drain from his face. East Acton, South Kensington, Paddington,  _Bond Street_? They were drawing closer to Baker Street… His breaths grew short as he checked the dates. There was a reoccurring pattern, he quickly realised; the Gleaners went missing for a few days but were always rediscovered in their District, with their collars broken and—

 

John’s hands shook as he turned to the next page. He knew it. Mutation dates. Each one corresponded with the dates in which the Gleaners were rediscovered. Each Gleaner had— No, no, he couldn’t think about it. He was cast back to a mere week ago when Lestrade had told him of the Mutation in Paddington. John had been uneasy at first but had dismissed it as an isolated case, knowing that it would cause unnecessary distress if he dwelled on it. He couldn’t be so naive now, not when he held photographic evidence in his hands.

 

His ocular senses were assaulted by a CCTV image. She was young, no older than twenty-five and looked distinctly Indian or Pakistani, if her head scarf was anything to go by. Her limp form had been carelessly dumped in an alleyway. That poor woman; with blood pooling round her body, it was hard to see where her point of injury was. However, that wasn’t what caught his eye, no. What filled his heart with dread, what made him break out into a cold sweat, was what was standing over her.

 

It was made of black shadow and smoke; as all Mutations were, but this one took the form of a bear. Its claws sharp and its eyes glowing, the lines of its ethereal body were blurred, indistinct. In its chest was a star;  _black_ , his brain supplied. Though it was a black and white photo, John instinctively knew what colour it was, all Gleaners did. He pushed the photo to the back of the pile, it made him physically sick just looking at it.

 

“John?”

 

He was shaking when he looked up from the reports. He caught Sherlock’s gaze, his violin was resting against his lap and his look of impatience had long vanished. Instead, it was replaced with something John couldn’t quite identify. Sharp, attentive but strangely soft? John blamed his incoherence on his unstable mental state.

 

“What was in that report?” Sherlock snapped, his head whipped towards Mycroft.

 

“I’m sure if you ask politely, John will show you later,” Mycroft said with a small wave of his hand. “John, you are aware of what I am trying to say, aren’t you?”

 

Not trusting his voice, John nodded; it was more of a jerk than anything else.

 

Mycroft’s attention briefly flickered to Sherlock. “Good. Please do be careful, if anything were to happen to you…” he trailed off, as if he had decided that the last part of his sentence was suddenly unimportant. “These disappearances have made the Board more than a little wary. Replacements will be harder to come by.”

 

John almost snorted at the statement. Hard to come by? What bull. The Homestead was full of Gleaners desperate to get away from that empathetic hell. Though he supposed, if he was forced to choose between the Homestead and facing Mutations, he would pick an eternity in Homestead, hands down. To send out replacement Gleaners now was pretty much the same as sending lambs to the slaughter. The kidnapper still hadn’t been caught and it was obvious that there had been a media blackout, otherwise these disappearances would’ve been all over the news by now. John couldn’t imagine the public hysteria this would’ve caused, nor could he comprehend the effort needed to calm the masses. Colossal, he was certain, and more effort than Mycroft could afford.    

 

“And with that, I bid you both farewell,” Mycroft said with a nod as he rose from the chair. “Sherlock, if you wish to keep this job, do remember the second function of a Gravedigger.”

 

Sherlock snarled. “I am perfectly capable of doing my job without you dictating me, Mycroft,” he spat. When he was met with a wry smile, Sherlock’s ire only increased. “Get out.”

 

For once, Mycroft did as his little brother demanded and was out of the flat in minutes, his umbrella swinging by his side as he did. An uncomfortable silence settled among the Gleaner and the Gravedigger, neither dared to speak first. John remained where he was, his hand still loosely holding the reports as Sherlock’s stare bored into him. He wasn’t sure how long the tension had lasted nor did he care, John was still processing what he had read, still coming to terms with the dangers that had suddenly threatened to drown him. The threat of a Mutation wasn’t a thing of myth anymore, it was a reality.

 

Someone was hunting Gleaners and if the pattern showed him anything, he was next.

 

The papers were snatched from his hand and John started. Looking at his hand, then to Sherlock, he saw that the Gravedigger was devouring every piece data with furious need. He watched the pieces fall into place, realisation settle and confusion flicker across his features when he was met with gaps in his knowledge.

 

“John, this woman, she—”

 

Before Sherlock had a chance to continue, John was walking away. “I’m headed to bed.”

 

He knew what his next words were, but he didn’t want to hear it. 

 


	7. Missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments please? I'd love to know what you think o u o

——

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

_——_

Sherlock growled as he left the Recruiting Office, pausing only when he saw the bane of his life standing before him, looking all too smug as he leaned against the black sedan. With a three piece suit and infuriating umbrella in hand, Sherlock had never wanted to throttle a person more. His eyes turned to slits, silently cursing the day for being so mockingly bright. Why was he here? He had somewhere to be, things to do; the corner of his dim room awaited him and the syringe wasn’t going to empty itself.  

 

“Are you happy now, dear brother?” Sherlock snarled, lifting the bangle that now ensnared his left wrist.

 

Mycroft smiled slowly. “Ecstatic,” he drawled. “I was so happy, I took the liberty of clearing out your flat. Your possessions are all packed and ready to go,” he paused and his smile widened a mere fraction. “Well, all the ones that were worthwhile.”

 

Sherlock’s body grew taut with rage. “You—”

 

“I am doing you a favour, heaven knows that it was rotting your mind.” The calm demeanour faded and his gaze hardened. “Do not fail me. Or so help me please, I _will_ send you away to rehab and you will not be able to stop me.”

 

His fists clenched at his sides and his molars ground down against one another. “You make it sound as if quitting would be an easy task,” he seethed.

 

“And luck would have it, your new Gleaner is a doctor, isn’t that fortunate?”

 

“So you’re placing me in the hands of someone who isn’t you? You’re growing careless.” Sherlock wondered how his bother would respond to such allegations, but a third voice had interrupted the furious exchange of words.

 

“Ah, wait up! Mister Holmes!”

 

The brothers turned to face the newcomer rushing towards them and in an instant, the war was postponed, met with a stalemate and left for another day. Seeing what the disruption was, Sherlock was unable to stop the scowl from appearing. There he was in all his five foot seven glory. This was the man that he was bound to, this fumbling, unassuming, insignificant man.

 

Yes, yes, he was a Gleaner, a being shrouded in mystery and the information on them was sparse, hidden from public knowledge, but it wouldn’t take long to crack it apart. A week, that was all Sherlock needed before he unravelled the Gleaner conundrum and fell back into the clutches of ennui. And when that happened, his beloved cocaine was waiting for him on the other end.

 

“I’ll leave you both to become acquainted,” Mycroft said, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts before he retreated into the car. Good fucking riddance.

 

The Gleaner watched as the car pulled away and slowly vanished from view, blinking a few times before looking up at him. “Who was that?”

 

Sherlock stuck his hands into his pockets and watched after the sedan. “The most dangerous man in Britain and none of your concern.”

 

“O-oh, okay?” he replied uncertainly, his eyebrows knitting together as he fought off the urge to rattle off a series of mind-numbing and predictable questions. He shook his head, his eyes clearing up; the confusion from before discarded at a moment’s notice. The smile on his face was put upon and much too fake. He was forcing himself. How disgusting. “John Watson, I’ll be your new Gleaner,” he introduced, holding out his hand.

 

Sherlock peered at the hand with a look of disdain, making no movement to reach out for it. “I am aware.”

 

John faltered. “Oh, I guess me being a Gleaner would be obvious,” he muttered. The hand that lingered in the air reached up to fiddle with the silver band around his neck. A nervous trait? Interesting. “But yeah, I wanted to get your phone number, so I could contact you when there’s a star calls.”

 

Business orientated? Good, this man had his priorities straight. Perhaps he wasn’t as much of dithering idiot as he had led to believe. He held out his hand, palm facing up. “Phone?”

 

John cocked his head, the gears turning in his mind before starting. With a muted ‘oh!’ he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his phone, placing it into Sherlock’s hand after a second of fumbling.

 

Sherlock flipped the phone open before rapidly taping at the keys to input his details in the contacts list. Pre-owned, old model, scuff marks around the charge port. It had belonged to an alcoholic, that much was certain. Not enough details, delve deeper, Holmes! Model was at least three years old, good, but what did have to do with—

 

His eyes caught on the flash of silver around John’s neck. Ah, of course.

 

“Were you close to the previous District Gleaner?” Sherlock asked, handing back the phone as he did.

 

“What?”

 

“The phone was his. Yes, him, obviously. This model is clunky, it would be uncomfortable for a woman to hold. He had turned to alcohol, unable to deal with his duties and drank himself to death. So for you to inherit his phone, I ask, were you close?”

 

John gaped at him.

 

Oh, and here comes the scorn, Sherlock thought with a mental eye roll.

 

“That was amazing.”

 

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to become slack jawed. He stared at him, blinked and looked away; the process repeated thrice more. “You really think so?”

 

“Yes, it was quite extraordinary,” John beamed, turning the phone in his hands as if it had been a magical artefact of some kind.

 

“That’s not what people usually say.”

 

“Oh? What do they usually say?”

 

Sherlock smirked. “Piss off.”

 

John laughed; vibrant and warm but soft and conservative. His forced cheer from before had long faded, now replaced with honest joy. Sherlock found himself quietly chuckling with him. “I’m not really the ideal spokesperson for ‘ordinary’,” John said. “So, I think those people are right pillocks.”

 

Sherlock felt a flush of warmth. “Did I get anything wrong?”

 

John shook his head. “Right on all accounts. I wasn’t close to him, hardly knew him in fact, only one Gleaner allowed in a District at a time and all. But I needed a phone and I inherited his stuff since I replaced him,” he replied with a shrug. “I could get a new phone but—”

 

“You’re not good with technology,” Sherlock finished.

 

John smiled sheepishly. “Exactly.”

 

There was a moment of comfortable silence.

 

“John, have you ever considered sharing a flat?”

 

~*~

 

He was unnerved, which was odd, as he was usually so in control. However, with the information he had gleaned –no pun intended, Sherlock found himself afflicted with an emotion he hadn’t felt in a very long time; concern for another human being. He gnawed at his bottom lip, his eyes flickering through data he had already read and re-read. Was this why John had been so avoidant whenever Mutations were brought up? Because a Mutation appearing usually ended up with the death of a Gleaner?

 

Sherlock winced. Though he had only known John for three months, the idea of his flatmate dying did not appeal to him in the slightest. It was hard to admit, but he had grown fond of the Gleaner. His infinite patience and tolerant nature made him the ideal flatmate and his job made sure that he was never bored. John had slotted himself into his life and Sherlock had found that he quite liked it that way; should something happen to John...

 

Then what? He’d go on alone, like he always had. He doubted any other Gleaner would be as interesting as John and as John had frequently said, he doubted that another Gleaner would _want_ to take him. Back to cocaine? It was odd that even the thought of his beloved seven percent solution didn’t seem as interesting anymore. It wasn’t to say that he didn’t miss the drug, far from it, but the high wasn’t the same as the thrill of the chase. Hunting down criminals, unravelling the mysteries of a fallen star, those activities were far more intellectually stimulating; and almost as addicting, though not quite.

 

The Gleaner from Paddington, Nilaya Dristi, had been found abandoned in an alleyway twenty minutes away from the station. Found behind a skip, reports had claimed that she had died from a slash across the throat. Whether it was from the Mutation or self-inflicted was unclear. Idiots, the lot of them. Though the picture was hazy, Sherlock could see that the wound was self-inflicted. She had taken her own life. What with? Now that was the million pound question.

 

However, despite the flood of information and a new game coming afoot, Sherlock found himself strangely disgusted at the Gleaner’s Gravedigger. Just where were they? Why weren’t they protecting their Gleaner like they were paid to do? Two simple tasks; dig a hole and protect a Gleaner, hardly rocket science. If it had been him, he would’ve protected John.

 

Sherlock blinked, surprised by his own internal admission. He shook his head and rose from his seat, John couldn’t keep avoiding this. He couldn’t keep hiding information about Mutations from him but it was apparent that he was not going to yield any time soon. No matter, all Sherlock had to do was to wait until he was worn down a bit more and then ask. Or rather, demand. Yes, demanding sounded like a much better idea. After a burial? That was when he was most exhausted after all...

 

His thoughts were disrupted when John stumbled into the living room, collar in his hands and fiddling with the buttons on the side. John offered him a lop sided smile; the initial nausea of star cry had now faded. The distress from before lingered, but Sherlock decided that it was best not to comment. Not yet.

 

“What are you waiting for? Grab your shovel.”

 

It was strange how easily Sherlock was able to return the smile.

 

~*~

 

The burial went without a hitch, but Sherlock found himself watching John more closely than usual. He noted the dilated pupils, the shortness of breath and the few beads of sweat that had formed after the soul had been swept by the wind. If Sherlock were to compare a burial to the use of drugs, then he really wouldn’t be that far off. Not quite a stimulant like cocaine, but more of the slowing effects of heroin. He had noticed that John had moved sluggishly after a burial and once, the Gleaner had collapsed on the way home and Sherlock had been forced to drag the man back. It was shortly after their third week together. From then on, he had been forced to accept that physical contact came with the job; not to say that the touches were frequent, but the risk of John collapsing was not uncommon.

 

It was strange how he didn’t mind it so much now.

 

When John remained on the floor, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John was tired, his face worn and weathered; signs of sleep deprivation and stress. However, these things weren’t the reason behind him staying down. What was...?

 

“Sherlock, I’m—” he stopped and shook his head. His whole body was quivering. “Never mind.”

 

Sherlock frowned. Why did people insist on starting a sentence if they weren’t going to end it? It didn’t matter. He may not have possessed Gleaner’s empathy, but he was intelligent. He _observed_ , that in itself was a remarkable skill. It was easy to fill in the gaps. “You’re scared.”

 

John flinched, nodding only a few seconds later. “You know what happened.”

 

“Naturally.” The Gleaners had been so distraught by the sight of a Mutation that they took their own lives. Those cowardly, shameful Gleaners that had been unable to look Death in the eye— No, rephrase. They had been unable to look Death in the eye when it was let out its cage. Was that what John was afraid of? If so, it was ludicrous. John was stronger than that, he wouldn’t cower to a mass of shadow and smoke.

 

He left these thoughts of admiration unspoken.

 

John’s gaze lingered on the freshly buried plot and gnawed at the bottom of his lip. “We should try and find the person targeting Gleaners, but I don’t really fancy being bait.”

 

“I see no other viable option,” Sherlock murmured as he began to scrape at the dirt with the tip of his shovel, idly drawing out plans and scribbling out the possibilities from which they could tackle the case. No, no, no, all of these options involved leaving John alone! Stupid District restrictions! How could he gather the necessary data when the man he was meant to protect was a proverbial sitting duck? He erased the scribbles with a quick swipe of his shoe and repeated the process thrice more. “Regardless of what you choose to do, you are in danger until the murderer is apprehended,” he said, annoyance dripping from each word.

 

“You think I don’t know that?” John snapped.

 

Sherlock looked up from his notes to fix his gaze to John, mentally cataloguing the range of expressions that flitted across his face. Impatience, fatigue, confusion, those were the recognisable ones. The fear was a little harder to see, but it was there, in the faint wrinkles of his brow.

 

“It’s just... the idea of having a Mutation running about,” John paused to laugh dryly. “It’s fucking terrifying, you know? There’s a good chance I’ll end up dead.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Was he imaging the relief he heard? Did John _want_ to die? “Nothing will happen to you,” he replied, his voice strong and resolute. “We will catch this murderer and we will carry on with our lives.” He let out a long suffering sigh. “As mundane as it may be.”

 

And for the first time in what seemed like weeks, John smiled warmly at him. The calming effect it had was infectious and Sherlock found himself returning the grin. “Sherlock, I think our lives are anything _but_ mundane.”

 

The Gravedigger’s laugh was a low rumble as he erased his notes once more. “I believe that the chaos we have is rather refreshing, don’t you?”

 

John rolled his eyes. “Maybe to you. Now can you help me up? I can’t move my legs.”

 

~*~

 

When Sherlock awoke dizzy and disorientated, his first instinct was to panic. Where was he? Why wasn’t he not back at home? He groaned as the sunlight hit his eyes and he pushed himself off the floor. Concrete, sounds of traffic, his sides shadowed but light came from above. Outside? Why was he outside? He sat up and winced. Despite his hazy thoughts, the sensation of pain from the back of his skull remained prevalent at all times. Think, stab of pain, think, repeat. He raised his hand to touch his head and felt a slight dampness in his hair. His fingers came back red. A blow to the back of his head? That would explain a few things. The blood flow was minute and could be easily treated by John once he—

 

John.

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped wide open and he frantically scanned his surroundings. He was in a thin gap between two houses and at the end of, he could see the main road. The space was one of many, negligible, one frequently passed by and the perfect place to dump a body. The sunlight that flitted down from above gave Sherlock a rough idea as to how long he had been out of action. It was early evening when they had come out to bury the star. It was now very early morning, he had been unconscious for almost ten hours.

 

He felt his heart drop and cold dread seep into his veins. John, where was John? His hand fished out his phone and wasted no time in calling. ‘Never call when you can text.’ What happened to that?

 

“Sorry, the number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable—”

 

Sherlock hung up. Calm. He needed to remain calm. Phone destroyed? A logical possibility. Battery dying? Far more likely. John always kept his phone fully charged so the thought of his battery dying left Sherlock feeling sick to his stomach. And there it was again, this overt feeling of concern, no, this was different. Now, the feeling of concern was sullied with fear.

 

Sherlock found his shovel nearby and rose to his feet. He was unsteady but it was nothing too serious, he’d live. But would John? No, no! Stop that! Focus, if he was going to find John, he needed to focus! Pieces of disjointed memories from the night before flashed through his mind. He desperately chased after the fading sensations.

 

A blow to the head. Muffled screams. Struggling. Senses dulling. Vision blurring. Pain. Fear.

 

_“Sherlock!”_

He grabbed his shovel and leaned against it for support. Rapidly, he flicked through the contacts of his phone. His hands shook as he hit the call button. He blamed it on the head injury. Come on, pick up! Pick up!

 

“Sherlock? What are you...? It’s 5am.”

 

“Lestrade? John’s been kidnapped.”

 

Self-contempt festered at the pit of his stomach and Sherlock fought back the urge to vomit. It was an arbitrary thought, but he wondered if the other Gravediggers felt this way when their Gleaners were kidnapped.

 

“Oh Christ... Where are you? I’ll be right there.”


	8. Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of rape and suicidal thoughts ahead, so please be aware if these sorts of things trigger you. Lots of action in this chapter~ And as always, comments are appreciated, so please let me know what you think!

 ——

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

—-

 

When John came to his senses, he noticed these things in this particular order:

 

1)    He was currently bound to a chair.

2)    His body was not responding to him.

3)    He was in a place he did not recognise.

 

He did his best to remain calm, despite the stressful situation; knowing that if he were to panic, his soul would latch onto the first person that drew near. Oh, how he hated his Gleaner soul, that hollow mass of mist that emulated fallen stars in more ways than one. It had caused nothing but grief. He took a few deep breaths and drew up his wrists as far as they would go. Handcuffs, so no chance of untying a knot. Fan-fucking-tastic.

 

His muscles felt like lead weights and his thoughts were hazy, as if he had been encased in cotton wool. Just what had happened? John closed his eyes, thinking back to the previous night. The burial, Sherlock carrying him and then... His brow furrowed as he forced himself to recall those blurred, disjointed memories. A force snatching him back, his weakened self reaching out to Sherlock as a hooded figure knocked him out. And then, then what? Drugged, most likely, because anything that followed after was a haze of darkness.

 

How long had he been out? And how long before the drug left his unresponsive body? He still felt sluggish and if someone attacked him now, he wouldn’t even be able to struggle. John’s gaze fell to his bound ankles and pursed his lips into a thin line. What about Sherlock? How was he faring? He could remember the Gravedigger reaching out to him, trying to follow after when he was pulled away. Was he bleeding to death in some ditch?

 

The image made his chest clench. He sincerely hoped not. Sherlock hadn’t signed up for all of this, he didn’t deserve whatever mess he had got them into. Thinking of how his friend could possibly be dead sent a shudder through him. This was all his fault, wasn’t it?

 

No. No. He couldn’t afford to think this way. Sherlock was far too stubborn to die so easily, and to think otherwise was an insult to him. John shook his head and tugged at his wrists again, internally rejoicing when he found his arms a little more responsive than before. If Sherlock was still alive, then he was going back to him because where else had he to go? 221B was his home and Sherlock was there. There. He had a goal set, now he _had_ to live.

 

He surveyed the area, taking in the surroundings now that his eyes had adjusted to the dim, flicking light above him. John was in a cellar, he could tell by the musky smell that permeated the air and the damp growing on the ceiling. The metal pipes above told him that he was in a factory of some kind; most likely abandoned if the layer of grime was any indication. He wasn’t able to see much, the cold light was slight and he was just able to see the faint outline of a door in front of him. Aside from that, there wasn’t much else.  

 

John groaned and slumped back into the chair. These observations were not enough to tell him where he was. Rolling his stiff neck, he froze when he felt bare skin where there should’ve been metal.

 

Broken collars, Mutations, suicides.

 

Shit.

 

Before John could panic further, the door opened.

 

The man that stood before the bright light was small in stature, close to John’s height, though the light flooding in from behind him made the details harder to pick out. His steps were soft as he kicked the door shut behind him and walked towards John. Clearer now, John could see the dark, sullen eyes, the slight stubble and the slicked back hair. Dressed smartly in a suit, John noted that it was an odd choice of clothing for such a dirty task. It was an arbitrary thought, but in a fight, John could easily take him. Too bad he wasn’t in one.

 

“Good morning starshine! The Earth says hello!” The man sang as he practically skipped the last few steps towards him. “And how are you, little District Gleaner?”

 

Why was he keeping his hands behind his back? John scowled and glared at his kidnapper the best he could. “Drugged and bound, so everything’s going just swimmingly. You?” He spat. His voice was raspy, far lacking in the bite he had intended.

 

There was a spark of madness in his eyes when he responded. “Wonderful! Of course, any day where I get a new toy is a wonderful day.”

 

John opened his mouth, ready with a retort when he was hit with a strong wave of nausea. A star cry? And it was so strong, it must have been close. But how? They were indoors, stars never fell indoors! No, there’s something else too. Something that amplified it. He felt the pain and anguish of a star but another feeling, a dark, murky fe—

 

A muddied soul.

 

John’s eyes snapped wide open and he peered at his captor, aghast. No. No, no, no! This man was—

 

“And the penny drops,” he said with a wide smile. “Jim Moriarty, hi!” he lilted. And from his back, he revealed the thing he had kept hidden. A star; fragile and glowing a faint green.

 

Wave after wave of disgust, pain and fear hit him and resonated deep in his core. John felt his shields being weakened and with each wave his vision blurred. With renewed vigour, John struggled, forcefully tugging at his handcuffs until he felt his wrists chafe and bleed. He didn’t care, every fibre of his being was drawn to the star, every cell in his body was telling him that he needed to comfort the star. His own wellbeing didn’t matter, the star needed him. He needed it.

 

Jim merely watched and smiled. “Oh Johnny boy, how devoted you are!” He stepped forward, barely a foot away and leaned down, waving the star in front of John’s face. He pulled back when John almost bit him but remained close enough to taunt. “Tell me, do you purge after every burial?”

 

Why was this man wasting his time with such stupid questions? Of course he purged! What fool didn’t? His soul called out to the star, hoping that the thin bond it formed would be enough to quell its fear. Disgust, there was so much disgust from being handled by a Gleaner it hadn’t called out to. John felt every pulse and it amplified his own. Jim was breaking so many codes and he hadn’t cared in the slightest. Was the star not affecting him at all? Where was his Gleaner empathy?

 

As if reading his thoughts, Jim stepped back, his face blank as he tossed the star up and caught it freely. “They stopped calling to me years ago,” he said with a wistful sigh. “Because I didn’t purge? Who knows. I suppose no one wants to trust a muddied soul.”

 

With every catch, John felt a stab to his heart. Pure, unadulterated rage blocked out the pain. When he got out, he was going to kill this man. How dare he, how fucking dare he defile a star like this?

 

“I don’t see why not,” Jim remarked, snatching the star from the air and rolling it in his hands. “Having bits of everyone in you is so much fun. I can access inside information from a government official— oh, she died in the most gruesome way, it’s delightful. Or remember how to disarm an explosive, —not that I ever would, too much effort. I can be anyone I want to be. Why purge when I have a world of possibilities at my fingertips?” Jim rambled, his voice growing louder in volume with each statement.

 

Because you lose sight of yourself? Because with each piece you take into yourself, you grow a little less sane? Because it’s _immoral_? Countless reasons, John thought as he glared at Jim with unfathomable abhorrence. He had stopped throwing the star, that was a small victory; shouldn’t he be thankful for that? No, there was something wrong. That glint in Jim’s eyes, the sudden quiet of the star.

 

He watched as the second hand came to grasp the lump of crystal.

 

“NO, STOP!”

 

Jim’s grin widened and he _squeezed._

 

Pain, unbelievable pain flooded every synapse. This was far worse than any shock collar, the pain wasn’t just physical, it twisted him to his core, set his mist-like soul alight. He felt his lungs empty of air, every breath he took was akin to inhaling glass. His skin burned, a sharp unyielding burn; a gasoline induced flame. Make it stop, oh God, please make it stop!

 

The bond between the star and himself became strained, he felt it accusing him. Why had he let it be subjected to such pain? Why wasn’t he helping him? He was trying! Oh, how hard he was trying!

 

Through tear filled eyes, John could see the surface of the star starting to crack. He knew what would happen next, it would crumble into a fine dust. Phosphene powder. Jim was making Phosphene powder right in front of him. If he were to continue, John knew that a part of his soul would die, the gaping hole would grow bigger; he would become more susceptible to losing his mind.

 

The pressure on the star eased and John felt air rushing into his lungs. Breathing in so deep, he coughed when it was caught in his throat. Everything burned and his shields were shattered. Weakened in every way, he could feel the edges of consciousness distort and a sticky feeling seeping in. Jim’s muddied soul was seeping in, threatening to invade his sense of self. He did his best to fight it off. The stars may have stopped calling to Jim, but his soul was still waiting on other Gleaners to fill that hole he was born with.

 

“I’ve been watching you, you know. Best Gleaner in all of London, your finding times are off the charts,” Jim said softly. “We could be a wonderful team, you and I. How about we make a Pledge? Wouldn’t that sound just grand?”

 

There were a number of things John wanted to point out but with his battered self still twitching with pain, it was hard to get the words out. A Pledge between two Gleaners was almost unheard of, the point of a Pledge was to have a stable soul anchoring the Gleaner’s hollow one. That wasn’t to say that it was impossible, but without an anchor the chances of mental instability grew higher. A Pledge between two Gleaners was an invitation to insanity. With that in mind, it was easy to see why Jim was offering, he had nothing to lose.

 

“How stupid,” John said instead. He wasn’t able to say much else.

 

Jim blinked, but instead of looking insulted, he smiled. “You’re right, neither of us would be able to hear star cry, what use would that be?” His grin widened until his face almost split in two. “I admire you, the others jumped at the chance to make a Pledge with me; all so desperate for their life to be spared. All of them too blind to see the gaping flaws.” He paused, striding over to place a gentle hand on John’s cheek, stroking so softly, it was barely felt. “You, you’re different. I’m sad that we couldn’t have met in the Homestead, we could have been wonderful together. Our bitterness would’ve been the perfect motivator. It’s lonely being the only Gleaner around, no one understands.”

 

With every passing second, John grew to despise that voice more and more. Mustering what little strength he had left, John gathered a mouthful of saliva and spat into Jim’s eye.

 

There was a roar of outcry and before he could blink, Jim’s hand was at his throat, squeezing tightly while the other one clutched fiercely at the star. John felt his senses dull, he was drawing close to his limit.

 

“I tried being nice, John. Really, I did. Though it looks nothing’s going to change your mind.” The anger passed and he released John’s throat. “But since I like you so much, I’m going to change the game a little.”

 

Before John had a chance to ask what he had meant by that, he felt his consciousness slipping away. And as his eyes fell shut, the image of Jim’s wide smile burned into the recesses of his mind.

 

~*~

 

It had been drawing close to twenty-four hours and Sherlock hadn’t dared to sleep a wink. His brain was working at full speed and he had waved off any concern offered from Mrs Hudson or Lestrade. If he had stopped, then the guilt would consume him. No. He had to focus, focus!

 

He stared at the board in front of him. Reports, documents, CCTV images all pinned to the wall in front of him, creating a network of information that made sense only to him. A web, one that would lead him to John, if only he could find the right thread! Too many stray threads, too many loose ends, which one? Which one?

 

Shortly after contacting Lestrade, they tried to locate John via the tracker in his collar, though obviously, to no avail. They were stupid for even trying, each murder victim had their collar smashed for a reason. John’s collar had lost signal somewhere near Great Portland St, still within his district. Of course, the alarms only went off when the tracker was out of bounds.

 

Sherlock let out a quiet scream of frustration and resisted the urge to pull at his hair. He had questioned the other Gravediggers, barging into their homes at obscene hours in the morning to extract information. None of them had any, all of them breaking down at the mere mention of their Gleaner. Would he be the same if they found John de—FOCUS. Mutations. They mentioned Mutations, hadn’t they? Appearing a day or two after the Gleaner had reappeared. Twenty-four hours had passed, John was bound to show again; but in what state?

 

Another roar of impatient fury. His wild eyes snapped to his right, trained on the smashed piece of plastic inside an evidence bag. John’s phone, they had found it Regent’s Park station. The SIM card was missing, but why? What was the point in destroying the phone if the card was retained? So he could be tra—

 

Of course. The kidnapper was toying with him. They would call him, of course. They knew his name from the night they abducted John, they knew he was his Gravedigger.

 

So what was he to do? Sit here and wait? How could he when John was out there, in some unknown state? If he was unlucky, which he seemed to be as of late, he’d have to deal with a Mutation. And a dea—FOCUS.

 

John was not going to die. He refused to let his only friend die, he refused to let the only good thing disappear like that. Sherlock balked at his overly sentimental thoughts. He blamed it on stress.

 

His phone rang.

 

~*~

 

John mouth was dry and he couldn’t see straight. He heard Jim’s voice whispering softly in his ear, soothing unintelligible words before placing down a phone beside him. He skipped ahead a few yards and placed the star in a shallow dip in the ground. It was in plain sight, it was taunting him, it was crying out louder than ever as its green glow turned darker in colour. The Mutation was beginning.

 

John tried, really he did, to lift his drug addled and starved self up to join the star, to hold and soothe its pain. But he couldn’t, his body had given up on him, his soul so worn and battered that it couldn’t help the star even if he wanted to. It was wrong of him to give up, but oh, the temptation was so great. To let go, to just fade away.

 

It was early evening and he was lying on the shore of Embankment, underneath a pier so no one could see him. Sharp stones dug into his face and dirt threatened to blind him, but John was far too weak to move. The star was dark, blending in with the rest of the rocks around it, no one would notice. The black aura grew.

 

“Don’t look so sad, I’m freeing you from a life of pain. Doing you such a grand favour,” Jim said, each word dripping with sickly sweetness. From his pocket, he pulled out a few curved pieces of metal and dropped them beside John’s head.

 

Of course, how could he forget the broken collars?

 

“I’m being so kind, I’m letting you have one last call. Sherlock, was it?” he asked as his gloved hands flipped through the contacts. “Be sure to let everything out, you don’t want to die with regrets, do you?” And with a slow smile, he placed the phone back down and beside John’s mouth. Jim’s hands were stuffed into his pockets and he walked away without a care in the world, he even had the gall to kick the star further down the shore.

 

In the distance, John could see the star pulsing, now a deep black. The first emotion that hit him was hatred, such vile, intense loathing that chilled him to the bone and made him cower in fear. Images flashed before him, gore, a young girl’s body ripped to pieces; he was reliving the star’s last moments. Murdered and raped? He couldn’t tell, the images were too painful, too vivid.

 

“John? John! Where are you, talk to me!”

 

John let out a choked sob, feeling every laceration that had been engraved onto her body, cutting him deep. He was hit with grief so strong it made him want to cry out. Each sensation was slowly being carved into his soul, the Mutation was forcing its way into his heart, into his mind. Pulses of hate and fear resonated so deep, he was unable to escape. He felt his sense of self slipping away, being buried by the putrid emotions being pumped into him.

 

And then the voices began. Screams of pain ranging in various volumes rang in his ears, from muted whispers to loud, ear-piercing cries. Pleas for it to stop, for it to be over. High pitched and childish, low and distorted. John could smell nothing but blood, could see nothing but the murder being played over and over.

 

_MakeitstopohGod,ITHURTS!Pleasestop!Pleasemakeitstop!_

“John, I’m coming for you! Just hold on!”

 

John felt as if blood was rising up to his throat. The screaming wouldn’t stop, each injury the girl had sustained could be felt on every inch of his skin. Not visible, not really there. Was that why each one was being reapplied with more and more force each time? Each muscle twitched and jerked, each nerve ending was being severed.

 

When he weakly opened his eyes, he could see the Mutation had taken form. A raven, with a slightly cracked star embedded in the middle of its stomach.

 

More and more layers of sound piled on. It wasn’t just the girl’s voice anymore, he could hear the murderer laughing in glee as they defiled her body. Again and again, why wouldn’t it end?

 

“Make it stop...”

 

“Don’t you dare— No, stay with me!”

 

Oh, the broken pieces of his collar looked so inviting now. The edges were just sharp enough if he applied enough force.

 

_STOP! PLEASE STOP! HELP!_

 

The raven flew away, bound by the bond she shared with him. She wouldn't go far. As he lay helpless on the ground, the torture continued; John hadn’t been spared. This was his punishment for neglecting his duties. The dial on his senses had been turned to 10, everything in his body throbbed. His eyes burned, his mouth and nose assaulted with the thick metallic taste of blood. Was he internally bleeding? Or was this a fabrication of his mind? The hollow mist of his soul was encased in a thick black shroud from where the Mutation had held him. Squeezing tighter and tighter until he couldn’t breathe. Was this how she felt when Jim squeezed the star?

 

Pain and more pain. Why wouldn’t it stop? Every movement was agony, he couldn’t hear anything but screams, every voice in stereo and never ending.

 

“Please, make it stop,” John whispered as he lifted the sharp of metal in hands. It burned to touch, he didn’t care. He wanted it all to end, he couldn’t take such torture, not anymore. He was being suffocated from inside out, he was breaking.

 

He held the makeshift blade to his throat.

 

“JOHN!”

 

And then. The voices stopped.


	9. Slumber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, the Johnlock starts. As always, comments are appreciated.

 ——

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

_——_

Fear. Heart stopping fear.

 

That was the only emotion that registered into Sherlock’s mind when he saw John lift that jagged piece of metal. He cried out, his voice breaking a little at the end. John’s name came out strangled and desperate. Please let him be safe. Please let him be safe. The arm dropped. Sherlock forced his feet forward, running towards John’s still body and prayed that there wasn’t a pool of blood.

 

“Sherlock, don’t rush ahead like that!"

 

Sherlock ignored him, his breaths came in short bursts as he slowed. He could see John clearly now, his body unmoving aside from the slight rising and falling of his chest. In his hand, he held a piece of his broken collar and to his left, his arm had fallen limp beside him. John hadn’t committed suicide, thank God. He knew John was stronger than the others, he should’ve never doubted him.

 

As relief poured into his body, Sherlock sank to his knees and leaned over John. He could feel moisture in his eyes as he spoke, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered now that he had found John. Now that he was safe. “I’m here, John, I’m here. Wake up,” he said, resenting how his voice had shook.

 

John didn’t respond.

 

The momentary solace of relief began to slip away. “John?” He reached out to clutch John’s hand, it was cold. The pulse was there, beating steadily, but his temperature was quickly falling. Not good.

 

The pebbles of the shore crunched beside him as another joined him. “Oh, thank God,” he murmured.

 

“Lestrade, something’s wrong.”

 

Lestrade sighed and placed a firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Yeah, I know. Called up an ambulance already.”

 

Sherlock recoiled. “You _know_? Know _what_ , exactly?” he spat, his wild eyes were now fixated on Lestrade. Furious, accusing, unwavering; what was he hiding from him?

 

Lestrade pulled his hand away and knelt down, his gaze distant as he peered at John’s unresponsive body. He shook his head and turned to Sherlock. “When a Mutation appears, a Gleaner has two choices.” At this point, Lestrade held up his index finger. “One, completely lose it and kill themselves.” He saw Sherlock flinch, so he waited until he lifted the second finger. “Two, if they hold out long enough, their brain switches off and they...” he trailed off, allowing Sherlock to fill in the blanks himself.

 

“Fall into a coma,” Sherlock whispered.

 

“We’re lucky, most Gleaners go for option one,” Lestrade said with a wry smile.

 

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, not appreciating the joke in the slightest. Lack of sleep, stress, a sense of dread that refused to leave; all of these contributed to his rapidly diminishing patience. “So how do we get him out of this blasted coma?” He inhaled sharply. “Oh, just look at what I’ve been reduced to, _asking_ for information. If you all didn’t hide such important data, I would’ve figured it out myself and woken John up by now!”

 

Lestrade remained calm and waited until Sherlock had finished, which in turn, only infuriated him further. “Need to find the Mutation first.”

 

“Then why are you just sitting here, twiddling your thumbs? Go drag your sorry behind and hunt down the Mutation and wake John up!” Sherlock was spouting nonsense now, some part of his mind knew this. A much larger part of him didn’t care.

 

It was a rather belated thought, but Sherlock suddenly understood why John had been so adverse to the idea of Mutations. Why his face had contorted with disgust at the mere mention. Why he had been so affected when he saw those reports. If Sherlock had known... He felt his chest constrict and the tears in his eyes threaten to fall. No, he couldn’t lose it. Not here, not now, not in front of Lestrade. He still had some dignity left.

 

“It can’t have gone far,” Lestrade said as he rose to his feet. The ambulance had arrived now, parked on the road above them; he waved them over to let them know where they were. “Mutations are bound to the Gleaner they’re latched onto. So as long as John stays a—”

 

“Of course he will!” Sherlock snapped.

 

Lestrade blinked, stunned for a moment before clearing his throat. For a little while, he appeared conflicted, rubbing at the back of his head as he murmured a few indistinguishable words. It seemed like an eternity when he finally opened his mouth. “Look um... I know you’re close to him and you’re pretty handy with cases,” he began slowly. “I’m breaking all sorts of rules by asking this but uh... Do you wanna help us find it?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he almost dropped John’s hand. Almost. His answer came without a second of hesitation.

 

“Yes.”

 

~*~

 

Hunting down a Mutation was a lot like hunting down a criminal. A criminal that did not have a corporeal form and therefore left no traces of itself at crime scenes. Aside from the claw marks that had been scraped across every inch of the victim and the bleeding eye sockets from where the eyeballs had been viciously pecked, there were no other indicators of the Mutation’s presence.

 

Hunting down a Mutation was a lot like hunting down a criminal but not at all.

 

There were no motives aside from blind hate and betrayal from a Gleaner’s neglect. —John wasn’t a neglectful Gleaner, if he could, he would’ve comforted it, he would’ve tried. He would’ve tried so hard— The victims shared a few similar qualities, all male, short, broad shouldered and in their mid thirties. —A lot like John— Sherlock had considered using himself as bait, but soon realised that he hardly met the criteria, even with his disguises. —But if it was for John’s sake, he would’ve done anything— The wounds on the victims were identical to a bird’s; not an overly large one, but bigger than a canary, that was for certain.

 

So he was dealing with a flying criminal. This sounded more and more absurd with every passing moment.

 

In the three days they had been searching, he had noted a few reoccurring observations and they were as followed:

 

1)    Before each murder, the area would suffer from peculiar power shortages.

2)    The Mutation always killed out in the open, never indoors.

3)    The deaths always happened at night.

 

Obviously, the logical plan of action was to be aware of any blackouts that may have happened; but the Mutation killed randomly, there was no telling when the next death would be. At least the area was contained, that was a small mercy. Even in a coma, John was still helping him. Sherlock choked back the bile that threatened to rise. Stupid guilt.

 

For a while, he had entertained the idea of using a Gleaner collar to hunt down the Mutation, but the moment he opened his mouth to suggest it he realised the many gaping flaws. Electrical equipment failed around a Mutation, a tracker would be useless. How could he believe that such a thing would work?

 

God, this ordeal was affecting him more than he thought. He was thinking _illogically._  

 

Sherlock hadn’t slept in four days, his body was weary and starved of food. If John was about, he would’ve been nagged to Hell and back by now. Sherlock would’ve ignored him the first two days, but would eventually succumb and eat a digestive to shut John up. He refused to admit that he would’ve done it to make him smile.

 

He rested his head on his folded arms, hating the sterile smell of the hospital and the pristine white sheets beneath him. Sherlock could hear the beeping of various monitors surrounding him, hooked up to John and reminding the world that, yes, he was still alive. John’s still hand lightly bumped against the side of Sherlock’s head, but he made no effort to move; no, not just yet.

 

Sherlock Holmes was not one for trivial conversations. All of his words had purpose, whether to extract information or to deliver it. But the oppressive air of the room was suffocating and the beeping of the machines were mocking him. If he had acted sooner, John wouldn’t be here at all. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will away the guilt that sat at the pit of his stomach, though to no avail.

 

Shortly after his realisations of the kidnapper’s intentions, Sherlock remembered scrabbling at his jacket to pull out his ringing phone. It wasn’t the kidnapper as he had expected; but instead, Lestrade. There had been an initial welling of disappointment, but he had soon worked it to his advantage. Relaying the information to the DI, they did their best to track the inevitable phone call.

 

And when it finally did happen, Lestrade was at his front door and driving him down to the Embankment, a hands free set had been hooked to his ear, feeding him any incoming news. Or at least, that was what Sherlock thought it was doing, he was too busy pleading with John to care. Those sobs, the weight of _defeat_ that was so evident in that raspy voice, Sherlock couldn’t delete it; it had remained in the back of his mind, haunting him. He had been so close to losing John. That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t tried deleting it, he had, he really had. It. Just. Didn’t. Work.

 

“We’re getting closer to finding it,” Sherlock slowly began. It was a lie, but John wouldn’t know. “You’ll wake up soon. Trust me, I’m never wrong.” That was a lie too. He had been wrong about so many things as of late, most of them pertaining to John. His fists tightened and his shoulders tensed as he buried his face deeper into the sheets.

 

“John Watson, what have you done to me?”

 

~*~

 

It was drawing close to the tenth day and there still hadn’t been any sign of the Mutation. Four days since the last murder. What was it doing? Why hadn’t it acted? Sherlock needed more clues and things were looking bad for John. Fifteen days was the average length of a coma, if he had let it continue then chances of recovery would only grow slimmer. He couldn’t afford that. He couldn’t afford to let John down again.

 

He had forced himself to eat, knowing that if he didn’t, he’d keel over from exhaustion and hunger; he wouldn’t be of any use then. Digestion may have slowed him down, but completely abstaining from food would be the death of him, literally.

 

Tracking down a Mutation was far more difficult than he had anticipated and he had a renewed respect for the team at New Scotland Yard. To trace something that left no traces, it was hard. Then he realised with a bit of scorn, that the squad probably stumbled upon the monsters by chance and not by skill. Most of the reported Mutations had been large animals; bears, wolves and in one case, an elephant. None of them were as small and swift as this bird.

 

The lack of information on Mutations was both a good and a bad thing. Good, in that it meant the District Gleaners were doing their jobs, bad in that it meant Sherlock had little information to work with. Damn it, damn it all!

 

When his phone rang, Sherlock was half tempted to ignore it. He paused when he saw the withheld number. Curious, he answered and waited for the other end to speak up first.

 

“I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with ‘M’,” a soft voice sang.

 

Sherlock’s grip on his phone tightened. “Who is this?”

 

“A bored spectator.”

 

Male, Irish, is in some way connected to him. No, connected to _John._ His kidnapper? It had to be, who else was involved in this incident? John’s social circle was limited to a few faces and Sherlock knew every one of them. Was this the man that had started all of this? Of course it was. All other possibilities had been ruled out. This was John’s ‘admirer’.

 

Sherlock couldn’t help the snarl that tore its way out of his throat.

 

“It’s black and small and soars through the sky,” the man continued. “Sitting all alone on a string of broken lights. It’s just waiting, by the by.”

 

“I will _end_ you.”

 

“Ah, ah, Mister Gravedigger, I’m trying to help you. I don’t want darling Johnny boy to die on me. I like him far too much. Now hush up, I’ll let you know where it is.”

 

“What reasons do you have for doing this?”

 

There was a moment’s pause. “I don’t feel like telling you,” came the petulant response. A wistful sigh could be heard. “John has such wonderful potential, maybe if he came around, he’d be more willing to join me.”

 

“You are delusional if you think he would.”

 

A soft laugh drifted into his ear. “All the great men are, my dear Holmes, all the great men are. I’m getting quite tired of this game of tag, so I’m going to end it. Green Park, Sherlock. You should hurry, it’ll awaken come sundown.”

 

And with that, the kidnapper hung up.

 

~*~

 

They had found it exactly where the man had said, perched on a string of broken lights a little away from the main road. The Mutation was still, its body now a shapeless blob at its head melded into its wing. In its belly was the star John had failed to save with a single crack ran down its surface. And though it was deep black like the rest of its body, it was hard to discount the only solid thing inside a mass of shadow and smoke. It was sleeping, but out in the open? Why? No, it didn’t matter. This was his only chance.

 

Sherlock waved Lestrade over, pointing up to the raven mere yards away from them. Behind them, the rest of the Mutation Squad stood ready, guns and rifles at the ready. He was so close now, the moment the core was shot, John would awaken from his slumber and this nightmare would end. It was all so, so close.

 

Lestrade lifted his handgun and took steady aim.

 

Three.

 

Two.

 

One.

 

The trigger was pulled and—

 

He missed.

 

Sherlock cursed as the bird awakened and swooped down, its sharp talons clawing away at one of the hapless gunmen. Short, stocky, male; he had fit the criteria. The sound of shredding body armour could be heard as the Mutation attacked relentlessly, letting out an ear-piercing screech as it did. It wasn’t the sound of bird cry, it was a sound that rendered the rest of the squad helpless and distraught.

 

It opened its beak again and screeched out once more. It was the sound of a girl’s scream.

 

Snapping out of his stupor, Sherlock acted quickly. He snatched the handgun from Lestrade’s loosened grip and aimed it at the raven while it was distracted. The gunman was bleeding heavily from his arms now, but his helmet was protecting him from the furious pecks.

 

Breathe. Sherlock reminded himself. There was only one chance and he wasn’t going to mess it up. He saw the core, pulsing in the vile creature’s stomach. John would wake up after this. John would return home. John—

 

Without another moment of hesitation, he squeezed the trigger.

 

Crack.

 

Sherlock was thrown by the recoil of the gun, but he didn’t tear his eyes away as the bullet passed through the star, shattering it upon contact. The raven stilled. The attacks ceased and opening its sharp beak, it let out one final scream. The scream reverberated through the area, striking fear into every person who had heard. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and his hands flew to his ears in an attempt to muffle the sound, it didn’t work.

 

As the screeching continued, he forced his eyes open. He needed to see this through to the end. He needed to know that it was all over. The next few moments were rapid and Sherlock would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been so adamant on watching. Over the sound of the Mutation’s screech, he could hear the rapid thrumming of his heart and for what felt like years, the world turned monochrome.

 

In the raven’s body, the shattered pieces of the star crumbled into dust. The shadowy mass was losing shape and with a burst of energy, the Mutation exploded; tiny balls of shadows flew out from where it once was. The shadows caused no harm, having dissipated scant seconds after they’d been expelled. It had passed through all it had come in contact with.

 

And with that, it was over. Colour returned to the world and slowly, everyone began to regain their senses. The member that had been attacked was now on the floor, collapsing from shock, it seemed. The paramedics on standby had sprung to action, running forth to treat the heavily bleeding wounds.

 

Sherlock started when he felt something brush his fingers and by the time he registered the sensation, Lestrade was holding the gun in his hand.

 

“It’s an offence to steal an officer’s weapon, but I’ll let you off just this once,” Lestrade said with a smile, replacing the gun into his holster as he did. “Want a lift to the hospital?”

 

The idea of being the first thing John saw filled his stomach with a strange fluttering sensation. It wasn’t unpleasant. “Yes, you owe me. It was a clear shot, how could you miss?”

 

“I’ll ignore the snark for now. Come on, the rest can handle the mess till I get back.”

 

~*~

 

When John awoke, the first thing he saw was a flash of blue-grey, then a blob of brown so dark that it was almost black and a very pale peach that looked white. It was all a blur, his brain was still working at half capacity, if even that.

 

“John? John, if you’re awake, answer me!”

 

John blinked slowly, his body felt sore and he wanted to go back to sleep. However, the voice was insistent and refused to shut up. He mustered up whatever energy he could afford and let out a quiet groan. Like magic, the incessant chatter stopped.

 

He felt his mind blur as sleep beckoned him, though he was aware of something wrapping around his shoulders and squeezing him tightly. John didn’t really have a chance to mull over what it was; his consciousness was fast fading. His head fell forward onto something hard, —a shoulder, perhaps? And despite himself, he inhaled deep.

 

It smelt of home.

 


	10. Realisation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you curious, there's an [ask blog](askstarshinejohnlock.tumblr.com) that runs along side the story. So drop us comments when you feel the urge to o u o

——

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

——

After John’s initial awakening, his bouts of consciousness became longer. At first, he was only awake for a few minutes at a time; which was fine, really. Recovery for coma patients was meant to be slow, so it really was fine.

 

No, that was a lie. It was bloody frustrating. John found it inconvenient that he was unable to go about everyday tasks in fear of fatigue. While he was grateful that he had the bodily functions that warned him of incoming sleep, he still felt like a narcoleptic. The feeling of uselessness that came with it was unneeded but remained regardless. Once he had drifted off halfway through a conversation with Sherlock and when he finally jolted awake to apologise to his friend, he was disappointed to find that he wasn’t there. Visiting hours had been long over, it seemed.

 

With a sigh, John pushed himself to a sitting position and was grateful to find that his body was rapidly recovering. He was still weak, of course, but at least his arms didn’t feel like lead weights. His legs, however, still remained stubbornly unresponsive. Oh, the physiotherapy was going to be a bundle of laughs, wasn’t it? He thought with a scowl.

 

Checking the clock, he saw that it was close to three in the morning. With his random spouts of consciousness, it was needless to say that his body clock was well and truly fucked. Though that could be fixed when he began sleeping like a normal person again. In the periods where he was awake and alone, John found that he became rather pensive. What else was there to do, but to think? He mulled over random things, his life, his job, the Mutation —he shuddered and quickly moved on from this topic, Jim... Eventually, all his thoughts returned to Sherlock.

 

When he had awoken properly for the first time Sherlock was beside him in an instant; sweeping into the room with a burst of manic energy. However, it wasn’t Sherlock’s sudden appearance that surprised him, it was what he felt. John was hit with such a strong wave of relief that if he had been standing, he would’ve been floored. And this was coming from Sherlock, a man who usually kept his emotions subdued. When they did get the better of him, it was never so forceful.

 

Sherlock was rambling when he embraced him; reporting all his findings, filling him with what he had missed and apologising once for his follies. It was only when he realised that he was still holding John, five minutes later, had he backed off with a faint blush. There was an awkward moment of silence before they fell into a familiar banter of gentle jibes and teasing. Had Sherlock eaten breakfast? No, of course not. And so on. There was an undercurrent of tension, but both were too tired to comment on it. Sherlock was hiding something beneath all the regret and relief but John decided not to probe too deeply; his emotional shields were still weak and his soul needed to recover.

 

His fingers brushed against the spot where his collar usually sat, finding it disconcerting to find bare skin. There was probably a tan line there, he hadn’t checked a mirror to see. He was technically considered a free man right now, wasn’t he? No longer bound by his District or fallen stars. —No star in good conscience would call out to such a weakened Gleaner. So, why did he feel even more hollow than usual? Had that Mutation actually gouged out a piece of his soul like he had feared? John squeezed his eyes shut; even now, flashes of that horrible experience lingered in the back of his mind. He had tried to purge it, but it stubbornly clung to his subconscious. The screams, the endless stream of pain, mere recollections sent him into near panic attacks. Remembering to breathe was an uphill climb but somehow, he managed.

 

John was worried. What if this hole affected his work? Handling stars meant temporarily filling the hollow space in his soul, after all. What if he got hooked on the feeling of star handling and forgot to purge? Would he end up like Jim? The very idea sent a cold chill down his spine. To end up like Jim... He would ask Sherlock to end his life via shovel should that day ever come.

 

And once again, his train of thought came back to Sherlock. Gravedigger, flatmate, best friend. John blinked slowly and peered down at his hands, biting at his lip, he probed deeper. Sherlock Holmes, the man who desperately begged him not to commit suicide. The man who went for days without food or sleep to look for him, to look for the Mutation —Lestrade had filled in the blanks that Sherlock had conveniently omitted. Sherlock Holmes, the man who did everything he could to get him back.

 

Sherlock was not a passionate man, not for people. He had once told John that ‘caring was not an advantage’ in regards to the way he so coldly dissected the fallen stars’ past lives. ‘They’re dead, why should I care?’ John could see the logic in it all, though his Gleaner empathy told him it was immoral.

 

So, taking these factors into consideration; the fact that Sherlock did all that to save him, that must’ve meant something, right? And then there was that feeling of _relief_ he felt. Sherlock could act all he want, but no one could fake such a strong wave of emotion. Sherlock _cared_. Sherlock cared about him. In what way, he wasn’t sure, but the fact that Sherlock cared about him and didn’t see him as an add-on to his job made him happy. It had been so long since someone had cared so much.

 

It was close to four in the morning when John sat alone in the dark. The small smile on his face was warm and bright.

 

~*~

 

The flat was empty.

 

Or rather, it was empty save for himself. Sherlock stood at the doorway to the living room, staring at the trinkets and curios that littered the floor, shelves and table. It was odd how John’s absence was so notable these days. Coming home from the hospital to an empty flat was, well, depressing. He missed the banter, the frustrated cries of the Gleaner when he found a particularly nasty experiment in the fridge, the company.

 

He missed it when John smiled at him after he did something ‘brilliant’. He missed the way John pottered about the flat when he was half asleep. He missed _John_. To see him in that hospital bed, so small as he was smothered by white sheets only served to remind him how badly he had fucked up. So many things could’ve gone wrong but if he had acted a little sooner, John wouldn’t be in the hospital having panic attacks —he had interrogated the nurses for this information. John wouldn’t look at him with wide fearful eyes after awakening from a nightmare.

 

And to think, he wanted to _trigger_ a Mutation. God, he was disgusted with himself.

 

The side of his fist made contact with the doorframe and after pushing himself away, he made his way to his room. It seemed like so long ago, when John had moved in with him. They had been mere strangers then. What had happened? When had he come to depend on the Gleaner so much? It was terrifying. If having John away from him hurt this much, what state would he be in if John had died?

 

Sherlock stilled. He felt as if he had been stabbed in the heart.

 

No. No. Don’t think about it. John is alive. That’s all that matters. He chanted in his mind like a mantra. He forced himself to move and shifted his line of thoughts to a different direction, one that wouldn’t lead him into a pit of self-loathing and contempt. Another train of thought, what could he think about?

 

His body hit the bed and he closed his eyes, willing sleep to rescue him from his overactive brain.

 

It didn’t come.

 

Alright, if that was the case, he’d think about dull things. Things that permeated his brain without permission; everyday tedium that would no doubt set him onto a fit of ennui. Hopefully, it’d be boring enough to actually send him to sleep. Of course, the idea of sleep in itself was boring, but if it made the hours fly by, then it was just less time before he got to visit John, right?

 

John. Once again, his thoughts led back to him. The warmth beneath his fingertips when he held him close, the soft murmur of his voice when he told him that he was fine, the feel of his hair against his cheek. At the time, Sherlock knew that he had been holding onto him for longer than necessary but it just felt so right. Who could blame him for wanting to hold onto that feeling for an extra few seconds? —minutes, hours, _days_?

 

The hospital gown was thin and exposed so much of his collarbone. At the time, Sherlock hadn’t thought much of it, he was just happy that John was safe. But with each visit, he had found his eyes lingering on the expanse of skin; just a little longer each time. How would it feel, if he had touched it? Would it be hot to touch? Soft? Dry? Would that band of pale skin around his throat be sensitive compared to the rest? What noises would John make if he touched it? Allowed his finger to trace round it? Gasp? Or maybe a quiet whimper? Would his voice stutter as he whispered his name?

 

Sherlock moaned.

 

How easy it would’ve been to simply slip his hand—

 

God, what was wrong with him? He was fantasising about his best friend. His best friend that rubbed his back and soothed him when he was going through cocaine withdrawals, his best friend that bandaged him up after he had cut himself, his best friend that he found himself irrefutably attract—

 

Sherlock groaned and pushed the heels of his hands to his eyes. No, no, no! This was not happening! This stupid attraction of his was going to ruin everything! John only saw him as a friend and flatmate, nothing more. But how long until he messed up? All it took was one little thing. A longing stare at John’s lips or something equally obtuse before John found out. And when the Gleaner recovered, he could easily probe into heart and find out that way. No, no, he couldn’t risk it. John had gone through eighty Gravediggers before him, what was another one to him?

 

Oh, how dispensable he must be, he realised with a sharp pang of pain.

 

Sherlock rolled his side, holding up his left wrist and staring at the band of metal around it. A simple bangle that had been around the wrist of so many others. How many of them had been close to John? Had any of them entertained the idea of romance with him?  How about sex—

 

The idea of another person touching John made him feel sick to his stomach. Sherlock raised his knees to his chest and brought his wrist close. What was he doing? He had once said, that caring wasn’t an advantage, hadn’t he? And yet, the idea of having John out his life made him feel as if he was being strangled. No matter how hard he tried to deny it, he cared about John. He cared more than a ‘normal’ friend was meant to care.

 

How did normal people deal with such emotions? It was _insufferable._

 

~*~

 

When Sherlock visited John the next day, he was aware of several things.

 

1)    John was awake.

2)    There was a stranger beside John’s bed.

3)    The stranger was incredibly close to John’s face.

4)    He was absolutely livid.

 

Following John’s gaze, the man was soon aware of Sherlock’s presence. He moved his lips from John’s ear and peered over his shoulder, regarding Sherlock with a raised eyebrow and amused smirk. Superiority radiated from the small man in waves and Sherlock felt his ire growing more with each passing second. The man kept his hands in his pockets as he straightened his back; finally leaning away from John. Regarding John with a nod, he strode out of the ward without another glance back.

 

“Like Hell I’d make a Pledge with you, wanker!”

 

John’s voice didn’t sound right. It was small and weak and Sherlock cursed himself for not noticing John’s state sooner. His head whipped round to the Gleaner and with three wide strides, he was beside him. His hands grasped John’s shoulders firmly, noting the faint tremors and the all too pale skin. What the hell had that man done to him?

 

John stared up at him, eyes wide with fear as he continued to shake. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said with a small, broken smile.

 

“What did he do,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question, it was a demand. He wondered if he had sounded as murderous as he felt, because John had flinched beneath his hands. Alright, different approach. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Sherlock tried again. “John,” he began softly. “What did he say to you?”

 

John bit his lip, thinking deeply over something Sherlock was unable to decipher. “He wanted to make a Pledge.”

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. Pledge, Pledge, where had he heard that term before? Hadn’t one of the Gravediggers mentioned it once? The Paddington Gravedigger, he said something about it. Think, think damn it! Hadn’t he mentioned that he wanted to make a Pledge with her before she died? But no, Sherlock hadn’t cared at the time. At the time, he had been fixated on finding John, so it was natural that he didn’t follow that line of questioning. He was more focused on asking for every detail of her disappearance, ignorant of his distress.

 

John had mentioned it once or twice before, as a passing remark; usually made with scorn. So why was it affecting him so badly? No, there was something deeper, an underlying reason. Sherlock tilted John back, ever so slightly; his grey-blue searching that burst of sapphire. Fear, that was the first thing he identified; or rather, it was the only thing that he could identify. Alright, work with that then. Think, what made John Watson fearful? Mutations, losing sight of himself—

 

Good, second option. Go for that one. Who was likely to make John Watson lose sight of his soul? Fallen stars but that wasn’t a viable option. The Mutation did not count. So, another source? What made a Gleaner’s soul unstable? What had the potential to breach those emotional shields of theirs, aside from fallen stars? Who had the knowledge of emotional shields in the first place?

 

Oh, _oh_ , of course! Another Gleaner!

 

The realisation struck him deep. Another Gleaner. A Gleaner capable of relocating stars. —That star was _placed_ on the Embankment, otherwise the District Gleaner would’ve picked it up instead of latching onto John. So obvious, could no one else tell? New Scotland Yard couldn’t. So, another Gleaner—

 

Another Gleaner that had just left the room.

 

Sherlock’s hands fell from John’s shoulders and he whirled round, ready to chase after that suited man and bash his skull against the floor until it cracked. How dare he? How fucking _dare_ he do those things to John? A low snarl was torn from his throat as he started forward; his mind focused solely on making that man suffer.

 

He was stopped when a hand came to grasp his wrist.

 

“Don’t bother... he managed to erase all the evidence, not that there was any in the first place,” John muttered, his voice still unbearably small. “And he threatened you.”

 

Sherlock blinked. Well, that was unexpected. “Me?”

 

John looked away, nodding slightly.

 

“So you’re scared—” John flinched. Sherlock cleared his throat and pressed on. “You were _unnerved_ because he threatened me?”

 

John frowned. “Of course I would be!” he snapped, now staring up at Sherlock with what seemed like determination. And just like that, the old John Watson was back. He was no longer the small, cowering man. He was the brave Gleaner that risked his soul in order to help those in need, he was the man that held a steak knife to a murderer’s throat, he was the man Sherlock had fallen—

 

No. No. Pay attention to the conversation at hand. “Why...?”

 

John huffed, shaking his head with that familiar ‘what am I going to do with you?’ expression. It soon softened and he stared down at the sheets, his gaze soft and thoughtful. “Because you mean a lot to me, you prat. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

 

Sherlock hated the way his stomach flipped. No, John meant it in a platonic sense. He wasn’t romantically interested. Curb the blasted sensation of hope. Damn it, would it really be that bad? If he let himself think otherwise? To just bask in the notion that John might actually—

 

No. Stop. Not good. More than a bit not good.

 

“What’s a Pledge?” Sherlock asked instead. He needed something to distract him.

 

John’s mouth fell open, gazing at him with a stunned expression. He quickly looked away. “I guess they wouldn’t really let people know about that, huh?” he muttered quietly. “A Pledge is...” he paused to lick his lips, buying a few precious seconds to rearrange his jumbled thoughts. “A Pledge is when a Gleaner offers up a part of their soul in exchange for another’s.”

 

Sherlock swallowed thickly. To have a part of John inside him till the day he di— no. What the hell was he thinking?

 

“It doesn’t happen often, since it’s irreversible,” John finished, trying to feign nonchalance with a one-shouldered shrug.

 

Sherlock saw past it in an instant, embarrassment. John was embarrassed about it? His eyes skittered to the left, then the right, mulling over the facts. He did his best to bury the hatred towards the other Gleaner; the very idea of having part of his filthy soul in John. It made him want to vomit. “And he wanted to make one with you? Why?”

 

“To make Prosphene powder, to help him do whatever manipulative bastards do, so I can be eternally bound to him. Who knows? I don’t want to think about it.”

 

John was hiding something from him but for once, he decided it was best not to press it. “Have you ever thought about making a Pledge?”

 

John smiled wryly. “Who’d want to be bound eternally to me?” he asked, the self-loathing rang clear in his voice.

 

 _Me_ , Sherlock wanted to say. He bit back the response. “Him, apparently.”

 

There was a loud snort. “Well, he’s batshit crazy. That doesn’t count.” With a heavy sigh, John flopped back onto the pillows and peered up at the ceiling, bored. “It’s a nice idea, but I wouldn’t want to weigh anyone down like that. It isn’t fair. I’d rather hunt stars till they stop calling to me then make a Pledge and regret it later.”

 

Sherlock made a quiet, noncommittal noise but said nothing. Pledges, he’d need to look more into those later. “So, you’re going to be returning home soon.”

 

John smiled brightly and Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat. “Yes, about bloody time! I’ll be a bit weak on my feet and have to use a stupid cane for a bit, but things can finally go back to normal!”

 

Normal, not including the psychopathic Gleaner that was now accosting his flatmate, Sherlock mentally added. He’d have to work harder to keep John safe, he couldn’t afford another mistake like that again. Never again. “Will I have to carry you?”

 

John frowned, though it was clear that his heart wasn’t in it. “I still have _some_ pride left, thanks.” His fingers came to the base of his neck. “Though I’ll need a new collar, it feels so weird without.”

 

Sherlock found the sight of John’s bare neck rather appealing, that pale line of skin drew his eyes in—No. No, stop that! Stop thinking like that! He shoved his hands into his pockets and his fists clenched. “I’ll ask Mycroft,” his voice even, despite his inner turmoil.

 

“You hate asking your brother for things,” John replied with a tilt of the head.

 

“Well, you were long overdue for an upgrade,” Sherlock said, not really addressing the point at hand. John had noticed the avoidance, surely, though he made no comment on it. “It’ll be nice to have you back.”

 

And once more, John grinned brightly. “It’ll be great to be back. Do you have any idea how dull the hospital is?”

 

Sherlock smiled slowly. “Can’t be as dull as an empty flat.”

 


	11. Dreaming

——

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

——

Coming back home was everything that John expected it to be and more. Never before had he actually craved the smell of corrosive materials and soil but yet, here he was, inhaling the fumes as if it were the finest perfume. The flat was warm both in temperature and in atmosphere; the hues of greens, reds and browns were forthcoming and left him with a pleasant feeling, far better than the sterile white and off greys of the hospital ward.

 

John was unable to stop the smile from creeping across his face at the familiar sight, though he made no effort to move. Sherlock’s hand had been on the small of his back, gently guiding him up the stairs and into the living room. It hadn’t moved now that they had stilled but John found that he hadn’t minded. If anything, it was the only thing that was keeping him grounded, the only thing that reminded him that he wasn’t dreaming. He was home. After almost three weeks, he was home.

 

“Do you want some tea?”

 

John blinked, slowly coming from his stupor to give Sherlock an incredulous look. “You never make tea.”

 

Sherlock’s hand fell away and for a moment, he looked affronted. “That doesn’t mean that I’m incapable,” he said with a pout.

 

Somehow, if Sherlock had been incapable of making tea, John wouldn’t have been surprised. If this man could delete the solar system from his hard drive of a brain, then the process of tea making wasn’t that much of a stretch. Regardless, John took the offer with a small grin and made his way to his armchair. Not even the vile clunking of his cane could deter his good mood.

 

He found his laptop resting on the arm of the chair; the power lead plugged in and its lid closed. No doubt that Sherlock had used it, he usually did —without permission, naturally. At first, he had been annoyed at the invasion of privacy but as time went on, irritation had waned to resigned acceptance. Sherlock never did anything incriminating and had only ever used John’s laptop when his own was too far away.  John was only angry when he used if when he needed it.

 

Changing passwords? Tried that. It didn’t work.

 

Booting up the laptop, he typed in his password and opened up the browser. It had been close to a month since he last contacted any of his online peers; being restricted to his District meant that he spent far too much time trapped inside the house. He had to do something to stave off the boredom and frequenting online chatrooms and medical forums seemed to work. He wondered if any of them cared that he had dropped off the face of the Earth, so to speak.

 

“I informed your correspondents of your absence,” Sherlock said as he handed John the mug of tea. His fingers brushed over John’s when he took the mug from him; lingering for a few extra seconds longer than necessary. John didn’t mind.

 

“You really didn’t have to,” John replied, oddly touched by Sherlock’s considerate action. Sherlock? Considerate? Perhaps he really _was_ dreaming.

 

Sherlock looked away and half-shrugged. “There was nothing to do.”

 

John took a sip of the tea and very nearly recoiled. How was a person able to botch up so badly? This tasted like shi— he stilled as he caught Sherlock’s expectant gaze and forced himself to choke the rest down. “Thanks, that was um, good,” he said with an unconvincing smile.

 

Sherlock frowned, his eyes fixed to the ground as he muttered something indistinct under his breath. John didn’t press it, instead, he placed the cup onto the small table beside him.

 

“Did you ever ask Mycroft for a new collar?” John asked, changing the topic none too subtly. Sherlock picked up on it, he always did, but he looked thankful for the diversion.

 

“It should be here tomorrow,” Sherlock replied with a huff. “Certainly it does not take that long to engrave a number into a collar?”

 

John rolled his eyes and sat back. “Then there’s the fact that they have to calibrate it to my District and make sure that the tracker’s working. Getting it in a day is amazing, from what I heard, it usually takes a month.”

 

“And what happens to the Gleaners that are left without one?”

 

John remained silent. They both knew the answer, there was no point in voicing it. The Gleaners were left to struggle, fumbling blind as they looked for a star that could possibly break them. While Gleaners did have the ability to pinpoint a star from its cry; with so many secret passages and hiding places, the situation was the same as looking for a needle in a haystack with only a magnet to help. It helped, just not that much. Now when one realises that said magnet comes with added emotional pain, suddenly an already awful situation becomes unbearable.

 

“Let’s just hope that there aren’t any stars tonight, huh?” John said with a wry smile. Sherlock merely nodded.

 

John bowed his head and began contacting his online friends, leaving messages in forums that informed them of his return. Well, ‘friends’ were a bit of a stretch. He talked to them rather frequently and they respected his professional opinion; but his conversations were always polite and formal, never crossing that boundary of acquaintances. Keeping his distance was just easier.

 

He was surprised to find that there were a few worried messages sitting in his inbox, some hoping for his swift return and others wishing him a quick recovery. Sherlock had told them that he had been in a car accident of some kind and while grateful that he hadn’t told the truth, John wished that he came up with a less tragic tale. Though, he supposed, that coming up with a decent excuse for a three week absence would leave options quite limited.

 

However, there was one person he frequently talked to, one he considered his friend, Mary. She was the only person to know that he was a Gleaner and surprisingly, had been very accepting about it all. They had began talking a little more than a year ago, after one of his numerous Gravediggers had left him. She had offered him support and told him to continue, not to give up. She was a kind, encouraging soul; an invisible but calming force and talking to her was soothing. John thought of her as a confidant and when Sherlock was being particularly insufferable, her jokes and witty banter made him feel a little better. He felt guilty for making her worry so he made sure to re-read his email a few times before sending it off. Hopefully, it was enough to offer her a sense of relief.

 

Lifting his head, John blinked when he saw Sherlock staring at him. He hadn’t moved.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock jumped. A flash of embarrassment crossed his face though it soon vanished with a small shake of his head. “I’m going to bed. Let me know if you need me.”

 

Was it his imagination, or did Sherlock sound...off? John dismissed the thought, offering a ‘goodnight’ to the retreating back before continuing with his browsing. So many interesting topics had updated in his absence, he had a ridiculous amount of reading to do. His previous observations and worries were pushed aside— Oh, someone had made a post about different types of bone fractures...

 

~*~

 

John’s body felt heavy, his limbs bound down as he laid sprawled flat on his back. The smell of blood assaulted him and he very nearly gagged at the sensation. The atmosphere was thick and oppressive as he forced himself to breathe through the putrid stench. Don’t panic, don’t panic. Oh God, why was it so dark? Why couldn’t he see?

 

A low rumble of laughter echoed throughout; a monstrous chuckle that chilled him to his core.

 

John opened his mouth to cry out, to question where he was, but his voice failed him. It felt as if his vocal chords had been torn from him, that there was a gaping hollow where his throat once was. Breathing was becoming difficult, he really hadn’t lost his throat, had he? Of course not, otherwise he’d be dead from blood loss, he reasoned. The darkness remained and slowly, John felt as if he was being suffocated. He was light-headed from blind panic and lack of oxygen. Pure, unadulterated terror was shot through him when the laughter was joined by screams.

 

Screams of the Mutation.

 

No, no! Not again! Not ever again! He couldn’t— No, he couldn’t relive this again! He squeezed his eyes shut, willing for the noise to stop. He wanted to cover his ears with his hands but his body refused to listen, still bound by something he couldn’t identify. When that shroud of darkness cleared and John found that he was able to see again, he was able to see the source of the screaming. A young girl, barely eight, beaten and cut up within an inch of her life on the floor; lacerations decorated her naked form, the major ligaments had been cut to prevent her escape. John noted, rather belatedly, that there was a concentration of cuts around her inner thighs.

 

Weakly, she turned her head to him, tears leaking from her eyes as she stared up at him; her gaze accusing and hateful.

 

“Johnny boy, don’t look away, this is the best part,” a soft Irish voice lilted.

 

It was only now, did John see Jim standing over the girl with a knife in his hand. Carefully, he aimed the tip over her heart—

 

“NO, STOP!”

 

_John! John, wake up!_

 

The knife came down.

 

“Please, don’t!”

 

_John!_

 

And plunged into her chest.

 

~*~

 

John woke with a start.

 

His body was trembling violently while visions of his nightmares continued to attack his distraught mind. Cold, he felt cold, he thought as the hot tears dripped from his eyes. His arms came up to wrap around himself in a poor attempt to warm himself and felt pathetic when he realised that it wasn’t helping. He lowered his head and did his best to quell the sobs that wracked his body. The images were still clear, her pained and accusing stare remained etched into his soul.

 

“John...”

 

John lifted his head, only now realising that Sherlock was in the room. He was sitting on his bed right next to him, just an arm’s length away. Sherlock was staring at him with a look of concern and helplessness; it was clear that he didn’t know what to do.  

 

He didn’t think twice about what he did next.

 

In one swift motion, John flew forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s chest, burying his head under the Gravedigger’s chin. He felt Sherlock freeze, but he soon relaxed and returned the embrace, his hands rubbing soothing circles on his back as he did. Sherlock was warm and the smell of his soap was welcoming; it didn’t smell of metal, it wasn’t the blood that afflicted his nightmares. John inhaled deep and despite himself, he allowed his hollow soul to take solace in Sherlock’s. If questioned later, he’d blame it on his weakened emotional state. Wave after wave of comfort and relief poured into him and slowly, but surely, a weak bond between them began to form. John knew that he should stop lest he risked muddying soul but he found that he wanted to reach out a little longer. Would it really be so bad? If his sense of self was buried by Sherlock?

 

“Stop that,” Sherlock murmured.

 

And John did. He was startled by how easily he obeyed. “How did you know?” he asked as he buried his head deeper into the crook of his neck. He was calmer now, his shaking had subsided.

 

“When you do that, my chest hurts and you get headaches soon after.”

 

His chest hurt? He hadn’t heard of that happening before. Then again, the last time his soul reached out to another living person was with Jim and he was being tortured at the time. That really didn’t count. His train of thought halted. Headaches? Sherlock realised that he got headaches? John wasn’t sure why, but he felt oddly touched at the observation.  

 

The images subsided, the hellish nightmare faded and as his breaths were no longer mere stutters of air. John reluctantly pulled away. It was odd how missed Sherlock’s touch so soon after parting. Was it his imagination, or did Sherlock’s grip briefly tighten? He ignored it, best not dwell on something that probably wasn’t there.

 

“Sorry, I got your shirt wet,” John said with a weak smile, rubbing at his eyes to rid the remaining moisture.

 

Sherlock shrugged. “It can be washed,” he replied before looking to the side. “Are you alright?”

 

John remained quiet, contemplating deeply before answering. “I should be,” he said, though his tone was uncertain. He shook his head. “I will be,” he corrected, not only for Sherlock’s sake but for his own.

 

Sherlock remained unconvinced but nodded all the same. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be in the living room,” he said, rising from the spot on the bed.

 

John’s body reacted before his mind could have a say. His hand reached out, grabbing the end of Sherlock’s shirt. John blinked, startled by his own actions and quickly let go. Just what the hell was he doing? Why had he done that? He lowered his head, staring at his sheet covered lap. “Could you stay?” he found himself asking, rather quietly. “Till I fall asleep.”

 

The silence that followed unnerved him.

 

John shifted uncomfortably and settled into bed. He turned, making sure that his back faced Sherlock, he’d never live this down. “Never mind, forget I said anything.”

 

The air was still and nothing could be heard. Sherlock wasn’t leaving?

 

The mattress dipped and John jumped when he felt a hand in his hair. The fingers that gently carded through the dishwater locks were warm and pleasant; and John found that leaning into the touch was more an instinctive than conscious decision. It was as if his body was naturally drawn to the other. Sherlock remained quiet, however, his movements grew in confidence when he realised that John wasn’t going to protest. John felt a shift in the atmosphere, the uncertainty had long vanished and contentment from both parties seeped into the room.

 

And a little while later, Sherlock started humming; Vivaldi, though John couldn’t identify the tune.

 

John wasn’t sure how long the petting continued, he didn’t really care. As wave after wave of calm eased his soul, his eyelids grew heavy and his mind became sluggish. The humming ceased when his breaths slowed.

 

“John, I...”

 

And that was all he remembered before sleep gripped him.

 

~*~

 

Warm hands trailed down his torso and air was expelled from his lungs. He was hot, unbearably so and despite having rid of all his clothing, it hadn’t aided him in the slightest. His skin burned from where the lips had touched him; his nerves set alight when he saw a sliver of white appear from behind reddened lips. For a few scant seconds he lost the ability to breathe, his partner did nothing as they dangled him over the edge of anticipation; their breath heated against his side. And then in one swift motion, the teeth sank down onto a patch of flesh. His back arched and a low moan erupted from his throat.

 

John panted hard, eyes glazed as he peered down at the magnificent creature lavishing him with attention. A mess of dark curls came to view and steadily, it moved lower and lower...

 

“Oh Christ, Sherlock...” John whimpered as he tugged at his wrists, currently bound down by Sherlock’s scarf. He swallowed thickly when he a familiar flash of silver came to view; Sherlock’s left wrist gripped tightly at his hip, the Gravedigger bangle on show for the world to see. Sherlock was his Gravedigger. _His._ He belonged to him. The thought sent a rush of pleasure through him.

 

Sherlock looked up, his gaze dark with lust and desire. His breath was thick as he exhaled over the head of his arousal; it was clear what he was going to do next but he hadn’t moved. He was asking for permission, patiently— teasingly, waiting.

 

John whined and shifted his hips up. “Please,” he begged.

 

A slow smirk stretched those abused lips and Sherlock readily complied, opening that obscene mouth wide and—

 

~*~

 

 

Jolting up from the bed, John clutched at the sheets; his cheeks flushed red and his breaths short. Oh God, what the hell was— Did he just— John’s eyes remained wide as his skin turned a darker shade of red. Alright, so he had a wet dream. Right, that’s perfectly normal, he assured himself. He knew it was normal because he was a doctor. Wet dreams can occur in men too, not just teenagers, he told himself, rather clinically.

 

Having a dream about his best friend, however, was _not_ normal.

 

John’s molars ground against one another to bite back the silent scream that threatened to surface. When he realised that it wasn’t working, he grabbed his pillow, shoved his face into it and let out a muted cry; close enough. Making noise was a definite no-no. The last thing he needed was for Sherlock to run in and see him with a raging erection. An erection caused by— Oh, God, no! If that had happened, then he’d surely expire from shame, if not him, then Sherlock would.

 

Alright. Calm, deep breaths, like he had been taught to do. So, he had a dream that his rather attractive flatmate was giving him hea— Oh, for fuck’s sake, no! No matter how he worded it, it sounded horrible and dirty and perverse and just _wrong._ Sherlock didn’t deserve to be fantasised about in that way! They were friends, close friends that would go to Hell and back for one another, but nothing more than that!

 

Nothing...more... than— Fuck. That thought shouldn’t have hurt as much as it had. What was wrong with him? John’s vice like grip on his pillow loosened and he turned his head, allowing himself to actually breathe. The pillow was warm against his cheek as it rested on his raised knees, though his conflicted mind hardly registered the sensation. Carefully, he contemplated. The facts were these:

 

1)    Sherlock was his closest Gravedigger —no, flatmate —no, _friend_ and he cared greatly for him.

2)    Sherlock was a relatively— fine, _very_ attractive man.

3)    John had been in relationships with men before. That wasn’t an issue.

4)    What _was_ an issue was ruining his friendship with Sherlock over these stupid dreams.

5)    If John was in a relationship with Sherlock, he really wouldn’t have minded.

 

Wait, wait, back up. What? What was that last thing? Did he just admit that he wanted to go out with Sherlock? Oh, good lord, one sexual dream and everything goes to all Hell. Hormones, messed up thoughts, misplaced gratitude, that’s what all of this was. It wasn’t attraction. Most definitely not. Nu-uh.

 

Christ, he needed help. But who? Aside from Sherlock, he didn’t really have any other friends. His social circle was so small, it hardly made a curve. It didn’t help that the handful of people he _did_ know was involved with Sherlock in same way.

 

An epiphany struck. Everyone he knew was involved with Sherlock.

 

Everyone but one.

 

John checked the clock. It was early morning now, just past 8am. Sherlock was probably asleep and if not in his room, then passed out on the sofa. Good, all he needed to do was to grab his laptop and send a quick email.

 

If he needed good advice, then there was only one person he could turn to.

 

He stumbled as he got up but quickly righted himself. He thankful that he was able to walk short distances without his cane, that was a small blessing. Though his steps were unsteady when he crept into living room, he was able to swipe the laptop without too much trouble. True to his initial thoughts, Sherlock was absent from the living room but his coat remained thrown over the sofa from the night before. He was around if John needed him, but not enough to smother him.

 

John’s lips quirked at the thought. Sherlock was being considerate again. No, no! Focus! Shaking his head, he hobbled back to his room with his laptop and flopped onto the bed. His laptop quickly booted up and he opened up his browser. He wasted no time in clicking his email client and selecting a name from his ‘most contacted’ list.

 

His message was brief and to the point.

 

_Hey, Mary? I know this is sudden, but do you think you could come to my District? For a cup of coffee? I need some help._

 


	12. Reciprocate

——

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

——

 

John had arranged to meet Mary later in the afternoon, it was short notice but he was immensely grateful when she had agreed. He just had to kill time until then, which in all honesty, was nothing new in his life. Having spent so much time trapped at home, John had become accustomed to entertaining himself; while not always successful, he had his ways.

 

It was a little past eleven when he rolled out of bed and after fumbling round a bit with his cane, he made it down the stairs without too much mishap. He despised his crutch, it reminded him of his weakness and depending on it was a massive blow to his pride. And inconvenient. Massively, horrendously inconvenient.

 

His self-contempt was disrupted halfway down the stairs by an unfamiliar smell coming from the kitchen. Cooking? In this flat? Sherlock cooked as often as he made tea and that was to say, never. Not even once in the full five months they had been together. John grew fearful, remembering Sherlock’s attempts at tea from the previous night. Oh good lord, if he could mess up tea, how would food end up? A black sentient sludge that would kill him in his sleep? A smouldering crisp so burnt that it made charcoal look lightly toasted?

 

With renewed energy, his steps quickened and he bypassed the living room, heading straight to the kitchen to stop Sherlock before he created a monstrosity. However, when he saw his flatmate plating up food from a frying pan, his panic transformed into disbelief. The food looked normal; a simple brunch, omelettes with pieces of chicken and spring onion. And now that he was close to the source, John realised that it actually smelt quite pleasant, nothing like the burning he had imagined.

 

“You...cooked,” John said slowly as he stared at the sight before him. Wait, two plates? “For me?”

 

For a split second, Sherlock looked uncertain. Irritation soon replaced it. “Is it really so surprising?” he countered. “I am known to occasionally do nice things.”

 

John sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock and gaped at him. “Yes, you are,” he agreed. “But I’ve never seen you cook. Ever.” John did all the cooking, or when they were feeling particularly lazy, they ordered takeout. Sherlock had never offered and John simply assumed that the Gravedigger found the task repetitive and tedious.

 

“Because there is usually no point,” Sherlock responded, pushing the plate towards John and handing him a fork. He moved to his side of the table and sat down. “You usually do the cooking and I find it rather dull.”

 

John paused, the forkful of omelette halfway to his lips when he tilted his head. “Then what made today different?”

 

Sherlock averted his gaze and took his first mouthful. “Spontaneity,” he replied after swallowing.

 

John decided to leave it at that and placed the fork to his lips. At first, he had expected the worst and had mentally braced himself for a failure like the tea. Well, there was stomach medicine in the bathroom cabinet and it wasn’t as if he had work... Mary would understand if he was a bit late due this. The egg touched his tongue, his eyes widened. This was—

 

The balance of chilli and onion was perfect, the hint of sugar to give it a sweet and pleasant aftertaste; a reassurance to the heat that first hit him. The milk worked well with the egg, making the dish rich but not heavy, though filling all the same. It wasn’t the best omelette John ever had, but it was definitely close.

 

He caught Sherlock’s expectant look.

 

John swallowed. “This is really good,” he said, staring at his plate with a look of wonder. “God, I might get you to cook more often.”

 

The tension in Sherlock’s shoulders seeped out and he quirked a small, but pleased smile. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, his voice fond as he cut into his omelette.

 

They ate in comfortable silence, each man consumed by their own thoughts though neither dared to share or elaborate. It was only after John had finished his food did Sherlock get up, head to the living room and came back mere seconds later with something in his hands. Round, silver, metal—

 

A replacement collar.

 

John took it into his hands and gently brushed his fingers against the metal. Polished, smooth and much lighter than his old collar. He checked the hollow space and tilted it towards him, seeing his number engraved on the inside along with his initials; thin and delicate compared to the ugly stamp print of his other collar. The buttons on the side were smaller too and as he lightly thumbed it, he realised that he still needed to configure it. Oh, it had been years since he last had to do this, everything felt brand new.

 

His fingers drummed against the buttons, swiftly inputting the start up code built into every standard issue collar. The hollow space came to life instantly, unlike his old collar that took minutes to boot up. The all too familiar grid showing their location appeared on the holographic screen, everything was clear and familiar though he noted, that were a few differences. For one, instead of a pale blue, his screen was a pale green and the buildings were shaded purple. Alright, colour changes weren’t a big deal, but the added detailing and extra features were certainly helpful. For example, he had found that each building was now assigned a number and in the case of public places, names. Exceedingly helpful should he find that he was separated from Sherlock and needed to relay information. The collar also had a zoom in and out function, as well as an option to turn on the inbuilt light found around the inside of his collar, the side that hadn’t been engraved upon, of course. Oh, that light would be handy on those dark and late nights...

 

“I did say you needed an upgrade,” Sherlock said, with a small amused smile.

 

John jumped, smiling sheepishly in response. How long had he been staring at his collar? “This is amazing, is this what the Gleaners are getting now? If so, I’ve been seriously gypped.”

 

“No, but I may have had a hand on some of the added features,” Sherlock said smugly.

 

John grinned. “Well, thanks, I really appreciate it.”

 

And he did, more than Sherlock could ever fathom. To have his collar again was like being reacquainted with an old friend. Feeling the warmth of gratitude pooling in the pit of his stomach, John shook it away lest they diverged into the ‘not good’ thoughts. His actions were perfunctory as he punched in his new security code and switched off the OS. Unlatching the clasp, he then proceeded to fasten the metal around his neck. The weight was familiar and comfortable and most importantly, it felt _right_. It was strange how he felt less vulnerable and exposed now that he had it on.

 

“Huh, it’s a little thinner than my old one,” John noted as he ran his fingers around his neck.

 

Sherlock responded with a noncommittal hum. A little concerned, John turned his head to find his flatmate staring at him; eyes glazed over and lost in thought.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock blinked. “Yes, what is it?”

 

You were staring, John wanted to say. He decided against it. “Nothing,” he said instead. And then, as if remembering his later plans, he opened his mouth once more. “Actually, I’m going out later today, around one? I’m not too sure when I’ll be back. In the evening, at the latest.”

 

The Gravedigger’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”

 

“Not sure yet, a cafe or something? I’m meeting up with an old friend.” Seeing Sherlock’s suspicion grow, John’s lips pursed. What could he say that would make Sherlock relax? “I’ll try to get back earlier, if you’re worried about me pushing myself.”

 

“I’ll go with you.”

 

John faltered at the declaration. No, no, no! Sherlock absolutely could not, _cannot_ come with him! There was no possible way for him to talk to Mary in peace with Sherlock sitting right next to him. Oh God, if he were to discover the topic of conversation... No, he couldn’t even entertain that notion. Not without spontaneously combusting from humiliation. John opened his mouth, ready to refuse to such unfair terms but had found himself stumbling over his words.

 

Sherlock regarded him with a cool gaze. “Is that a problem?”

 

“Christ, Sherlock, I’m not a child! I don’t need you babysitting me.”

 

The mask of indifference slipped and a flicker of rage cross Sherlock’s features. “I was negligent of my duties once and look what happened,” he reminded coldly.

 

And underneath that veil of anger, John could see fear. Hell, he didn’t need to see it to know it was there. His hollow core trembled, it felt Sherlock’s soul was quivering, sending out a thin ebb of terror that resonated deep in him. Quickly, John raised his shields lest he lost himself in Sherlock again. He stood up, reached out and held his friend by his arms.

 

“Look, if it worries you so much...” John paused, his tongue poking out to wet his lips as he planned his next words. He let out a sigh of resignation. “You can come, but please stay a fair distance away. I need to talk to her in private and no matter what, you must promise me that you won’t try to listen in.”

 

“Her?” Sherlock whispered.

 

“Sherlock, do you understand me?” John reprimanded.

 

The Gravedigger nodded weakly and after a few beats of terse silence, he pulled away. “Excuse me, I have matters to attend to,” he muttered. He didn’t wait for John’s response because within seconds, he was out of the kitchen and the sound of a door closing was heard.

 

Confused, though grateful that the confrontation was over, John slumped back into his chair and sighed. Running his hand over his face, he peered at the ceiling began to lose himself in his thoughts. How was he going to explain this to Mary? Would she be annoyed? Maybe disturbed and uneasy? He smiled to himself; she probably wouldn’t care. She had an ineffable tolerance for the abnormal and Sherlock Holmes was abnormal as they came.

 

It was funny how John was okay with that.

 

~*~

 

“Sherlock, are you ready to go?” John called from across the living room. Tugging on his usual black jacket, he grabbed his repulsive cane and started to double check that he had everything. Sherlock emerged from his room.

 

John stood stock still.

 

“You are _not_ taking that with you,” he said firmly, once he had gotten over his shock.

 

Sherlock frowned and stared at the shovel his right hand. “I feel that it would be adequate,” he replied, rather petulantly. “Should there be a star, it would be inconvenient to be caught unawares, yes?” He lifted the shovel up a few inches, loosened his grip and allowed it to fall back down. The tip landed on the ground with a satisfying ‘thunk’ and made a small mark in the carpet. Standing tall, he placed his free hand into his coat pocket and met John with a challenging stare. “Besides, I’ve promised to stay a fair distance from you. We will not be associated with one another.”

 

For a genius, Sherlock could be unbelievably stupid sometimes. Of course people would associate the madman with a shovel with him; he would be the only person within two yards with a Gleaner collar! John bit back his scathing remark and hissed through his clenched jaw. He didn’t have time for this, if they dawdled any longer, they’d be late. Mary was kind and patient, but John highly doubted that she’d forgive being stood up; not lightly, anyway.

 

He groaned and did his best to will away the incoming migraine that threatened to form. “Right, whatever. Let’s just go, please?”

 

“Lead the way,” came the smug response.

 

~*~

 

True to Sherlock’s word, he had kept a fair distance away though John couldn’t help but feel uneasy. He always saw Sherlock lingering about from the corner of his eye and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to face Mary with his Gravedigger hanging around like a bad smell. They hadn’t gone too far just a tube stop away from Baker Street, they could’ve walked, really. However, John’s legs had other ideas, they were still weak and as a doctor, he knew that he couldn’t push it. Two minute tube journey it was then.

 

He looked about the crowded station, looking for a familiar shade of blonde he had only seen once before. Smiling brightly when he caught it, along with a white scarf and warm brown jacket, he called out to her and waved. In response, she waved back and made her way over, hugging him tightly before returning her own smile.

 

“John, it has been too long!” Mary said when she pulled back, her grin turned sheepish. “Probably my own fault, I’m never in your District.”

 

John shook his head. “It’s fine, thanks for suddenly dropping everything to come meet me.” He shifted, looking away to hide his look of embarrassment. “Sorry about that.”

 

“Nonsense, no problem at all.” She paused for a brief moment, confusion upon her features. “So, car accident, huh?” she asked, her tone sceptical as she peered at the cane in John’s hand.

 

“I’d rather not get into it,” John muttered though he probably wasn’t heard, the station was so loud that his quiet admission was probably drowned out by the white noise of civilisation.

 

“Alright. I won’t push,” Mary said. “Where to?”

 

“There’s a coffee place right outside? It’s nothing extravagant though.” John shrugged.

 

Mary merely laughed. “You know how to charm a girl, don’t you?” She stilled a second time, something in the distance caught her eye. “I’ll assume that the tall, pale and broody man with a shovel is Sherlock?”

 

Now it was John’s turn to laugh. “In all his six foot glory. Oh, I think he caught us talking about him,” he said, stifling his chuckle when he saw the dark glare shot at them. “Well, let’s not waste any more time.”

 

With his spirits lifted and calmed, he began to lead Mary —and by extension, Sherlock, to the cafe ten minutes away. Thankfully, the weather was nice and they had chosen to sit outside and Sherlock, withholding his promise, had sat along a ledge a fair distance away, his eyes piercing as he glared at the flowerbox across from him. It was mean of him to think so, but John couldn’t help but find the image rather humorous. A thirty-five year old man sulking with a shovel was a sight to behold.

 

“Mind if I sit on the outside?” he asked when they stood beside the table. He tilted his head in Sherlock’s direction. “Lip reader,” he mouthed.

 

“Ah, so I see that the situation is about him,” she said with an all knowing smile. “I’ll do my best to make it difficult for him.”

 

“Mary, you are a saint.”

 

She rolled her eyes at the statement but took her seat nonetheless. “While I’m not all too surprised that it’s about him—” She caught his bewildered look and did her best not to laugh. He must’ve looked rather comical, paused mid-sit and eyes wide open. “John, you talk about him all the time,” she said, giving into temptation and giggling softly, John huffed and sat down completely. “And you spend so much time with him, it’s rather obvious that it would be about him.” She leaned forward, lifting her hand to signal a waiter that would take their order. Once gone, she continued. “However, you’ll have to narrow down the spectrum a little more. If this was a simple gas explosion in the kitchen, you wouldn’t have contacted me.”

 

It was now, John had belatedly noted, that Mary had partially covered her mouth with her fingers. “Sharp as ever,” he muttered. Groaning to himself, he lowered his head and rubbed the back of his head with his hand. “God, I’m a wreck. I can’t believe I’m just telling you like this...”

 

The coffee she ordered arrived promptly and after a few gentle blows, she took the first sip. “You’d have to tell someone eventually,” she replied. “Though I’m not too sure what ‘this’ is.”

 

“IthinkI’mattractedtohim.” Embarrassment flared on his cheeks and as he dared to look up, he could see wide eyes staring right back at him. “This is stupid...”

 

Mary started. “No, no!” Realising that her voice was a little too loud, she peered over John’s shoulder, whatever she saw prompted her to calm down and to resume speaking in hushed, secretive tones. “It just caught me off guard. Though, if I’m honest, I kind of expected it. You do nothing but talk about him.”

 

“I do not,” John snapped, a little insulted.

 

Mary cocked her head back, her gaze was challenging though she said nothing. She was allowing him time to think it over. John did his best to think over their conversations, trying to pick a time when their topic hadn’t revolved back to Sherlock in some way. How about—No. What about— No! God damn it.

 

When he released a groan of defeat, she smiled.

 

“Point proven.”

 

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” John asked tiredly.

 

“It was rather cute. You were always so lively when you talked about him,” her voice became soft, pensive. “It was nice.” Another sip. “Why the sudden realisation? What happened?”

 

John made a half-strangled sound; he really had no desire to tell her about the Mutation crisis. Just, no. No one deserved to hear it and reliving it was something he never wanted to do willingly. His nightmares were bad enough, thank you very much. “Stuff,” he said vaguely.

 

“Stuff,” she echoed, her eyebrow delicately raised.

 

“Stuff,” John confirmed. “But after ‘stuff’ happened, I don’t know... we grew closer and I sort of liked it. Then I had a dream.” His cheeks flushed a dark red.

 

The silence that fell between the two was almost suffocating.

 

“Oh,” Mary whispered. “So you’re worried that he’ll find out?” Her response was a short nod. She fell into a contemplative quiet for a few minutes, saying nothing as she continued to sip her coffee.

 

When the cup had been drained of its contents and Mary still hadn’t uttered a word, John began to panic. Was she disgusted? Maybe she was, was that why she hadn’t said anything? Was that why she wasn’t looking at him in the eye? God, it was bad enough that he could potentially lose Sherlock as a friend, he didn’t want to lose Mary too. To be completely isolated was a crushing concept that, unfortunately, most Gleaners fell victim to.

 

He should apologise. Apologise for troubling her with his stupid problems. Apologise and pray that they could bury this very awkward situation behind them. God, he was an idiot, he shouldn’t have unloaded his issues onto her like that. “Mary, I’m—”

 

“You should tell him,” she cut off.

 

“What?”

 

“That you like him. I think he feels the same, because during this whole time we’ve been sitting here, he hasn’t taken his eyes off this table. If not to glare at me, he’s staring at you.”

 

John sat back, eyes wide and his mouth agape. When his mind came back online, he shifted, starting to look over his shoulder to see if Mary was right.

 

“Don’t move,” she said firmly. “You’ll just have to trust me on this.”

 

And he did. Listening to her firm, but soft command, he readjusted himself into a proper seating position. “Where do I even start?” he breathed. Mary was spouting nonsense. Sherlock, interested in him? It was absurd, the only thing that Sherlock was interested in was in stars or—

 

Faint touches, comforting hugs, tea, _cooking_.

 

Sherlock had done all of these out of character things for him, hadn’t he? No, no, but that didn’t make se— ...Make what? The evidence was all there, as subtle as it all was. Perhaps he was reading too much into things? Or maybe not, Mary must’ve seen it too, why else would she have said what she said? John worried at his lower lip, his emotions running rampant as he began to analyse all the memories he had accumulated. His brain told him that he was clinging onto false hope, that it was all a schoolyard romance and wouldn’t last at all. His heart, his _soul_ , screamed at him to take the risk, begged him to do so. He had been alone for so long...

 

“You can start by going home with him,” she offered with a kind smile. “Let me know how it goes, alright?”

 

John nodded mutely, his brain was still working in overdrive, it barely had the chance to process anything else. It was only when he was on his feet did he return back to his senses. “Mary... thanks.”

 

She shook her head. “Just go already, silly,” she shooed.

 

John began to walk but barely two feet away, he paused and looked over his shoulder to where she remained sitting. He half turned. “How are things going, by the way? I got so caught up in myself that I forgot to ask.”

 

She grinned. “I have a new boyfriend, I think he may be a keeper.” She made no move to elaborate and her body language showed impatience, she was silently telling him to go.

 

Reassured that he wasn’t the world’s biggest egocentric dick; John nodded and moved towards Sherlock who, naturally, had been observing the whole exchange. The Gravedigger’s expression was of confusion and shock when John approached him. However, his eyes soon dropped, his gaze fixed onto the ground and his shoulders slumped. His whole being screamed out ‘defeat’. With his hands clasped in front of him and his legs drawn together, John wasn’t too sure how he felt. Had he been the cause of this change? Was he the reason the great Sherlock Holmes looked so small? If so, he didn’t like it and he was going to fix it.

 

John shook away the observations and held out his hand. “Let’s go home.”

 

Sherlock’s head slowly lifted, his gaze incredulous as he peered at the hand outstretched towards him. Realisation took a while to hit him, but when it did, John felt his stomach flip at the smile that bloomed on his face. The rush of joy he felt from Sherlock made his own lips curl back into a grin.

 

Sherlock took his hand and didn’t let it go until they got back home.


	13. Pledge

——

_Dedicated to D.J., my Conductor of Light._

——

 

The ceiling was an insipid shade of beige, Sherlock noted as he lay on his back. Inhaling deep though making no effort to move, he began to think. One month had passed since John’s meeting with Mary and since then, things had changed. He wasn’t exactly sure on _how_ things had changed, they just had. Whatever that woman had said to John, it had a positive —though at times, infuriating, effect.

 

How? An example of said ‘change’? Well, for one, their lingering touches were mutual and not just one sided on Sherlock’s half; John would touch the small of his back to get his attention, lean towards him when they sat together on the sofa to watch crap telly, to name but a few examples. They were never overtly affectionate or obvious; casual touches that normal friends often did to one another.

 

However, there was one important thing that Sherlock frequently reminded and prided himself upon and that was he, Sherlock Holmes and he, John Watson, were most definitely _not_ normal people. John was a private and closed off individual, he would never touch so freely and carelessly, not to mention that he was also a Gleaner. As an Empath, skin contact only heightened emotions and for a man who was constantly fighting to maintain his sense of self... Surely John must’ve realised how dangerous it all was, yet he did it anyway.

 

Was it wrong that Sherlock didn’t want those touches to stop?

 

No matter, the observations remained unchanged. John was showing signs of returned affection but was doing everything in his power not to talk about it. The two of them remained dangled in a state of limbo, neither progressing nor regressing and frankly, it was driving Sherlock round the bend. Something! Why couldn’t they do something that would bridge that gap? It was so obvious that they were made for one another, what was stopping them? Why was John so hesitant?

 

For Sherlock, he admitted —and only to himself, that he feared failure, that this ‘Honeymoon’ phase would evaporate within days and they would grow to resent one another. The idea of having to part ways and growing bitter towards each other, it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Perhaps that was why John was hesitating as well? Because he felt the same? It wouldn’t surprise him if that was the case. John was intelligent, a rare find in the world, and though he wasn’t intelligent like Sherlock was, his knowledge of emotions and the inner workings of people’s minds was second to none. John filled the gaps of Sherlock’s knowledge, he offered inspiring observations that did wonders to Sherlock’s cognitive processes and he was, for a lack of a better idiom, his other half.

 

Perhaps he was being bias with his praise, it _was_ John after all. 

 

If John was feared of ruining what they had, then it made sense and Sherlock couldn’t really fault him.

 

And then there was the problem of Jim Moriarty, psychopathic Gleaner extraordinaire. The man that was fixated on John and—

 

No, stop, breathe. Breathe, lest he break something. Simply thinking about that man was enough to send him into a fit of blind rage. How long before the bastard made his next move? The past month had been peaceful, but this was the calm before the storm. Moriarty was still targeting John and Sherlock was fiercely determined to protect him at all costs. He was going to take Moriarty down and make him _suffer_. Or rather, he would if he could; he was loath to leave John’s side but he couldn’t track Moriarty without proper legwork. It was all so stifling.

 

Another terrifying possibility assaulted Sherlock and left him breathless. What if, just, what if there was the tiniest possibility of losing John? Lost him to another person? Lost him to _Death_? He had come so close to the latter, what was to say that it couldn’t happen again? And the first option, would that actually happen? It could, if they continued to remain where they were. It would only be a matter of time until one of them grew tired of it all and simply _stopped_. They’d give up without even trying. The notion of John leaving struck Sherlock deep and left him feeling cold.

 

No, he couldn’t let this continue. Sherlock would simply have to take John and keep him to himself before anything else could. He knew it was morally wrong, to think of John as a thing to be claimed though he was soon reassured by the fact that he cared very little for morals to begin with. Social convention, unified thought processes that fit into simple and obtuse boxes of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’, it was all so dull and rather blind. Choices weren’t clear cut, never so easily defined as black and white; morals were no different.

 

Now the question remained. How to lay his claim? How would he let the world know that John Watson was _his_ and no one else’s? A normal relationship was difficult and a relationship with a Gleaner was near impossible. —Oh, another reason for John’s hesitation, Sherlock’s brain chimed. Close proximity, affection and in turn lowered guards offered the risk of Sherlock’s soul bleeding into John’s. There would only be so much John could take before he lost his sense of self and his mind. Sherlock didn’t know if he could handle another repeat of the Mutation incident. He shuddered, never again. So what could he—

 

The idea came to him instantly. Of course! How could he so stupid? There was a way he could offer himself, an offer only available to Gleaners. With his mind filled resolve, Sherlock was left to ponder over how to ask John, timing was key, after all. He sighed and rolled to his side. This was going to be a long night.

 

~*~

 

 _‘Stars fall when one dies prematurely or simply die feeling unfulfilled_ ,’ Sherlock was mentally recalling the Gravedigger Introduction Guide again. It wasn’t unusual, he felt that a refresher in basics helped to distract him when he ran through the streets of London. It helped keep his mind off potential Mutations —no, don’t think about it. ‘ _Because of such causes, many stars come from hospital patients with terminal diseases or in some rarer cases, murder victims_ ,’ his brain continued to rattle off. His shovel was gripped tightly in his hand and just above it, his bangle shone in the dim light. ‘ _As a Gravedigger, one must be aware that a Gleaner will be easily distressed after a burial, this is perfectly normal._ ’

 

John ran ahead of him, tracker alight and urgency set upon his features. It was a common sight nowadays. Ever since the incident, John had taken to calming stars as soon as humanly possible and though he never voiced it aloud, Sherlock knew why —John was afraid that someone would take them away. No, not someone, _Moriarty._

 

It was because of this, Sherlock ran just as fast, matched John’s pace and shared his determination. He didn’t care much for the stars, but he cared for John and that was enough. _‘After a burial, a Gleaner will remain motionless as they begin a process called_ Purging, _during this time, the Gravedigger should not, in any circumstance, attempt to move or touch the Gleaner until told otherwise._ ’

 

_‘For the sake of their mental health, we highly advise all Gravediggers not to form personal relationships with their Gleaners.’_

 

His mind ceased its recollection when they reached the intended spot and he swiftly got to work.

 

The burial went without a hitch, a small teal star found in the middle of a grassy patch. It had been a child, a boy no older than twelve; died of leukaemia. He had chosen this spot because this was where he’d buried his dog, he wanted to be with his pet even in death. How odd, to have chosen his pet over his family, Sherlock mused as he replaced the crumbling soil over the hole. Perhaps his parents had disowned him soon after his admission into hospital? Hard to tell, not enough data.

 

And sure enough, John began Purging, remaining motionless for a few minutes before standing and offering Sherlock a small but tired smile. He returned a smile of his own, pulled John to his feet and walked beside him as they started to make their way home. Their steps fell in sync; slow and unhurried, their arms brushed one another every few steps until John gradually grew tired of it and simply grabbed Sherlock’s hand, holding it until they got back to the flat.

 

Sherlock smiled the whole way back.

 

As they stepped into the living room, a loud, obnoxious chime shattered the illusion of peace and informed John of a new text message. He had a new phone now, with a different SIM card and though not as fancy as the one Moriarty had ‘given’ him, it was still a significant improvement from his last clunky brick. It also came with less emotional baggage, but that went without saying.

 

Sherlock felt the air grow cold when John paled. Without a second of hesitation, his hand plucked the phone from John’s slack fingers and he read the offending message.

 

_Johnny boy, I’m bored. Can I come out and play? Xoxo –Jim_

The next set of words flew out of his mouth without the consent of his brain.

 

“John, make a Pledge with me.”

 

~*~

 

Still reeling from shock of the text message, it took John an obscene amount of time to register Sherlock’s words. When he did, five minutes later, his eyes grew wide. “W-wait, _what?_ ” He rasped.

 

Sherlock’s eyes nervously flickered to the left, he placed John’s phone onto the table and with a deep breath, he stared back at him. The moment of hesitation was now gone and instead, there was a hard, firm gaze of determination. “Make a Pledge with me,” he repeated, slower, more confident.

 

This was a joke, right? Any moment now, Sherlock would turn around with that smug grin of his and tell him not to be so stupid. Any moment now. Any... —Oh Christ, he was serious. John remained stock still, his mouth opening and closing idiotically as he struggled to form words. “Sherlock, do you even know what you’re asking?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes turned dark when he closed the distance between them. His hand reached out to touch John’s chest, fingers brushing the part where his heart was housed. “It means,” he said, feeling the frantic beating beneath his touch. “That I want to give you a part of my soul. That I want to be eternally bound to you,” he said softly. “It means that I am giving you my heart.”

 

Such gentle, reverent words, dripping with sincerity and need; was Sherlock really the one saying this? John faltered, wanting to list the thousand and one reasons as to why this was a horrendous idea; he wanted to tell Sherlock that there was a high chance they could become bored with one another, that they should try a normal relationship first —though John knew from experience that it would only end in disaster, that they should think this through.

 

The words of protest stopped halfway up his throat. Instead, he said:

 

“If we do this, we can’t go back.”

 

A Pledge with Sherlock? He’d be a fool to turn this down.

 

Sherlock remained where he was, desire coming off his body in waves as he spoke. “I am aware.”

 

“If something were to happen, we’re stuck with regret for life,” John continued, his words now regaining strength. He needed to make sure, this wasn’t a decision they could make with half-hearted impulse.

 

“Then we will deal with it if the time comes.”

 

John’s shields lowered, probing into Sherlock’s soul for any signs of hesitance; there was none, only want and desire so strong that John had to stop lest he drowned in it. “You’re really serious, aren’t you?” John asked, his voice quiet and awed. Why would such a brilliant man want him? It didn’t make sense.

 

“Do you not want to?” Sherlock asked, now pulling back, his previous bravado now starting to fail him.

 

John’s eyes widened and he snatched the retreating wrist. “I do!” He said quickly. “It’s just... things could go wrong. What then?”

 

Sherlock lifted his wrist, gently kissing the fingers wrapped around his bangle. “Or they could not,” he countered. “We’ll never know unless we try. So I will ask once more, for the final time. Will you make a Pledge with me?”

 

John watched him, his knuckles burned from where Sherlock’s lips had touched him. Swallowing thickly at the realisation that, yes, Sherlock Holmes was actually confessing his love for him —though in a very obscure, roundabout way, John was left with one singular thought.

 

“Yes.”

 

~*~

 

John had guided him to the couch and sat him down. His previous uncertainty had waned and instead, he looked a little flustered, still in a state of disbelief. And if Sherlock was perfectly honest, he felt the same. It was all rather surreal and Sherlock was sure that at any moment now, he’d wake from this dream only to realise that it had never happened at all and that John had left him during his slumber. If that was the cruel reality that awaited him, then Sherlock wanted to keep dreaming.

 

“For this, you’ll have to follow everything I do, okay? We need to be touching each other at all times and no matter how uncomfortable you feel, we can’t break skin contact. I’ve been told that this will hurt,” John instructed. He looked away, frowning lightly. “But first, we need a cut. It’s weird, but we have to transfer blood to make this whole thing work. Doesn’t have to be big, as long as it bleeds.”

 

“So when you said contact, you need me to drink your blood?” Sherlock asked, a little dubious though it was more amusement than anything else, he trusted John’s words and that was all that mattered. Looking around for something that could make an incision, his eyes fell to his shovel. Though still a bit dirty from the last burial, the tip was sharp enough to—

 

“Holy shit! Sherlock, what are you doing?” John cried.

 

Sherlock looked up from his bleeding palm to meet John’s horrified gaze. “You said you needed a cut.”

 

“Was that even sanitary? And God, you only needed a small one, not that gaping gash you’ve got there!” John continued. His head snapped from left to right, looking for something that could clean the wound and to stop it from getting infected.

 

“John, if you want to stop the bleeding, then may I suggest using your mouth?” Sherlock asked, lifting up his bloody palm to demonstrate his point. In reality, the cut wasn’t too deep, the blood made it looked far worse than it really did, though John didn’t have to know that.

 

Taking the hint, John left out an annoyed huff. “Give me a bit, I’ll be right back,” he said with fond irritation. Disappearing into the kitchen for a few seconds, he soon returned with a freshly bleeding finger and a few paper towels.

 

After a quick wipe to get most of the excess blood away, Sherlock felt his heart beginning to pound when John straddled his thighs; his face a mere breath away from his own as he placed the bloodied finger to his lips. Sherlock parted them automatically, accepting the digit and closing his lips around it. His tongue exploded with the taste of John; the salty metallic taste filled his mouth, mingling thickly with his saliva before he swallowed. And in turn, John’s head dipped down, turning his palm upwards as he licked and pressed his lips around the cut. Sherlock was unable to tear his eyes away, desperately fighting the temptation to pull John’s head back and to ravish his mouth, he started when he felt John’s free hand on his chest.

 

It took him several long seconds and an impatient shift to remember that he was meant do the same. Sherlock’s hand clumsily pawed at John’s chest, resting just above his heart and quickly, he flashed John an uncertain look, unsure if he was doing this right.

 

John merely responded by closing his eyes and _pushing_.

 

In Sherlock’s perfectly sound and logical mind, what he saw happening should’ve been deemed impossible. It was impossible because there was no way that John’s hand was actually _plunging_ into his chest... right? And yet, the proof was right in front of him; shaking off his sense of disbelief, Sherlock mirrored John’s actions and pushed, watching in awe as he saw his hand disappear into John.

 

Sherlock felt his breath stutter and his eyes slip shut as a burst of heat exploded inside him. John’s fingers reached out, brushing over something that very nearly made him moan. Something solid, judging by the way the digits dipped and rose. With every brush, every lingering touch, Sherlock felt himself losing more of his mind; pleasure, euphoric, blinding pleasure fired through every synapse. The smell of John, the taste of his blood, the heat from his tongue and the denim clad thighs wrapped around him; every sense was invaded by John.

 

In his hazy thoughts, a singular one screamed at him to do the same, to make John feel as good as he felt. He swallowed the mouthful of blood and endeavoured to mirror the actions.

 

Sherlock’s fingers spread, wriggling and exploring the crevice of John’s soul. Instead of something solid, he felt nothing. Or rather, it felt like mist; early morning mist that felt like wet air. Smoke? Maybe smoke as well? The tendrils wrapped around the spaces of his fingers, barely brushing and lightly caressing them as they slipped through, over and over again. From above him, Sherlock felt John whimper and shudder, his breathing irregular as he struggled to keep his mouth where it was.

 

This was too much, Sherlock thought as the blood pounded through his veins. The feeling of intense mind numbing pleasure made a cocaine high pale in comparison. He was saddened to know that he’d only ever feel like this once. To have his soul and body simultaneously touched left him heady with pleasure. How long could they continue this? Forever? He twisted his wrist, his fingers sweeping through the elusive mist.

 

A low guttural moan was torn from John.

 

No, no good, if they kept this up, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. He couldn’t break contact, though the temptation was just so great.

 

And then, the spell was broken. Searing pain replaced that decadent haze.

 

John’s fingers wrapped around a piece of him, squeezing tightly and as he swiftly moved his hand down, Sherlock felt a part of him break. He did his best to bite back the scream. Pain, so much pain. He felt as if John was tearing his heart in two, physically and mentally tearing out a piece of his heart. The sharp ache was blinding, it left him dizzy and breathless; when John’s hand remained where it was, holding a piece of his soul above the unseen gouge, Sherlock remembered that he was to do the same.

 

The idea of causing John such pain left Sherlock fearful, but the gentle lick to his palm coaxed him, reassuring him that he’d be fine. He forced back the hesitation and Sherlock weakly nodded. What was he to do? John’s soul wasn’t solid like his. Improvise, he supposed. Blindly, he grasped at the mist gathering a fistful and pulling it till it separated from the mass. John stilled and a dry sob could be heard, but they remained where they were, allowing one another to recover before they continued.

 

The next move was done in perfect sync. Sherlock didn’t need to be a Gleaner to know what happened next. Slowly, they drew their hands back, pulling out each other’s souls into the open. And as Sherlock looked down, he was able to see, for the first time, what a soul looked like.

 

John’s soul was beautiful. From feel alone, Sherlock had believed that it was mist but actually seeing it —how could mere words describe a Gleaner’s soul? It was a flame, or rather, that was what it appeared to be; a more apt description was that it was a column of mist in the shape of a gas flame. It rested obediently above his palm and allowed Sherlock to scrutinise it. Mostly white in colour though upon closer inspection, he could see speckles of orange, blue, numerous colours, traces so scant that it appeared as if someone had sprinkled glitter onto it. Traces of other souls that failed to have been purged? He didn’t know.

 

His eyes dropped to John’s hand. His own soul was there before him, its appearance was similar to a lump of crystal, sapphire, unpolished and along one side, it was rough and jagged from where John had broken it. It emitted a pale aura, like the fallen stars he had seen so many times before but unlike them, he soul appeared softer; the surface not quite solid. It was dissimilar to the fragile glass the fallen stars appeared to have been made of. Like soap, his mind belatedly supplied, the consistency reminded him of a bar of soap.

 

Sherlock watched John for the next instruction and as he saw that hand pull back, he did the same. Sherlock’s hand came to his chest and he barely needed to push the flame to his skin when it was absorbed into him.  

 

When John’s soul began to fill the gap of his own, Sherlock felt the world crumble around him. An explosion of images burst forth from behind of eyes and was accompanied by a torrent of emotions that weren’t his own. Though John had explained this sensation to him once before, he had never expected it to be strong, to be so overwhelming. Snippets of memories and sensations whirled by one by one before him and he was powerless to stop them. Was this how a Gleaner felt when they handled stars? How were they even able to function?

 

The rush seemed to last for an eternity, though in reality it was barely a few seconds and when Sherlock returned back to his senses, he inhaled deep, John’s finger slipping out of his mouth as he forced air back into his lungs.

 

John sat back, smiling weakly, grinning with an emotion that Sherlock had never seen before. When he identified it, Sherlock felt his breath stutter. Adoration, pure and utter adoration and it was aimed at him.

 

John closed his eyes, allowing his forehead to gently bump against Sherlock’s. “You okay?” he asked softly.

 

Sherlock felt a strange sensation in his chest. Ardour, attachment, devotion, feelings so intense that Sherlock wasn’t sure how to react, how _could_ he react? How could he react to such a strong conviction? How could he react knowing that these weren’t his emotions but rather, that they were John’s?

 

With every pulse he felt, the message became so clear. Without words, John was telling him that he loved him.

 

Sherlock didn’t hesitate when he cupped the back of John’s head, pulling him forward so that their lips met. The kiss was soft, a simple response, confirming that he felt the same. When their lips parted, it wasn’t long before they joined again and again, repeating with growing intensity and heat. With every beat of his heart, Sherlock felt his —no, their, souls calling out, shouting unspoken declarations of want and need, melding together so securely that there was no fear of separation.

 

John moaned into the kisses, returning them with equal fervour, biting and licking at his lips till they turned a deep red. More, their souls cried out, they wanted more. More contact, more intimacy. Sherlock needed to crawl inside John, it wasn’t enough that their hearts were now bound, he needed _more._ He craved the sensation of skin on skin, he needed this to be physical and from the pulse of desire, he knew that John felt the same. Oh, how he had dreamed of this, how close he was to making this a reality—

 

“Shit!”

 

Sherlock blinked dumbly as John recoiled, his face twisted in pain as he clutched at his now bleeding hand.

 

Bleeding with a wound identical to—

 

“Oh.”

 

John looked up at him, his face flat but disbelieving. If it hadn’t been for the ruffled hair, reddened lips and rumpled clothing, Sherlock might’ve taken him seriously. The look of irritated shock soon left and a small smile replaced it, which in turn, grew into a fit of giggles. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

 

Sherlock found himself laughing with him. “How was I to know that this would happen?” he asked as he checked his hand. Above his bleeding palm, his finger now sported an identical cut to John's. 

 

“Well, they didn’t mention this part to me either, so we’re even.” He sighed and shook his head. “You realise that we can’t do anything till this gets treated, right? Mine _and_ yours.”

 

Sherlock let out a petulant huff. “Must we? I was rather enjoying what we were doing before.”

 

John gave him a pointed stare before moving away, ignoring Sherlock’s frustrated whine as he rose to his feet. “If you had made a small cut like I asked, this wouldn’t have happened,” he said with a boyish grin. “You cockblocked yourself.”

 

His glare was weak and appeared more of a sulk than anything else. “Hurry up and treat this so I can go back to kissing you,” Sherlock said, thrusting his bleeding palm out to prove his point.

 

Bending down, Sherlock was caught off guard when John lightly kissed his parted lips. “Patience.”

 

He watched John head for the bathroom before leaning back into the sofa. Even when apart, he could still feel John. That sensation of content and warmth wasn’t his own though it made him smile all the same. He knew that from the bathroom, John was feeling his impatience and desire. Sherlock mentally chuckled at the image of John fumbling through the cabinets in an attempt to find the gauze, feeling annoyed as Sherlock’s impatience continued to pester him.

 

Lifting his hand, to stare at his palm, his smile widened.

 

Matching scars, not quite a wedding ring but it held the same message. Perhaps one day he would invest in the trite, cultural trinket; it would serve well in telling the world that John Watson was his and no one else’s. One day but not now. For now, the piece of John’s soul in his chest and the wound on his palm was enough.

 

Reappearing with the kit in his uninjured hand, John dipped down to brush his lips over Sherlock’s. And with such a simple action, Sherlock felt his heart swell with warmth and he was at a loss. How could he put such emotion into words? How could he let John how he felt? Though he had a greater grasp of vocabulary than most people, he found himself struggling to string together a sentence that could even hope to express one tenth of his adoration. Sherlock sat up, mentally stumbling over cliché sentences and useless words. Why was language failing him now?

 

John merely smiled and kissed him once more, the message was clear.

 

_I love you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, thank you all so much for sticking around to read this. There's still an epilogue and that'll be posted as part 2 of the 'Partnership' series, which will tie up all the loose ends. Until then, I hope this will tide you over.
> 
> Edit: And now with fanart! Thank you Dray~
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/390385


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